


To Solve a Paradox

by stoplightglow



Series: Paradox 'verse [1]
Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Bandom Big Bang, Bandom Big Bang 2018, Coping, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Podfic Welcome, Psychic Abilities, Psychic Gerard Way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-08-24 16:17:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 39,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16643573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stoplightglow/pseuds/stoplightglow
Summary: Ray shifts so he's no longer just a head hovering in the doorway. "Lily Dale? Brian, isn't that the place you were telling me about with all the psychics?"Frank's head snaps to stare at Brian incredulously. "With all thewhat?"





	To Solve a Paradox

**Author's Note:**

> this was written for bandom big bang 2018, and goddamn, it was a long haul. the complement fanmix that [jazindisguise](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jazindisguise/pseuds/jazindisguise) so kindly made for me can be found [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16827589)!
> 
> there are some people i need to thank for helping me put this together. first off are the mods, for answering all of my questions graciously and keeping this challenge running for a decade. you guys are incredible.
> 
> secondly is [nat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/corruptedkid), who i basically owe my firstborn and/or soul to at this point. this story would not be half of what it is without her diligent beta work, seriously. 
> 
> last but not least, thank you to [jazindisguise](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jazindisguise/pseuds/jazindisguise) for making a kick-ass playlist that i can't wait to jam out to in the car. go check out the link above! 
> 
> a lot of my heart is in this story. i hope you enjoy.
> 
>  
> 
> _disclaimer: though i do not practice it, spiritualism is a real religion that of course deserves respect. the process of a psychic reading has been doctored for storytelling purposes. also, i've never been to lily dale, so do me a favor and suspend your disbelief a little. ___
> 
> __**warnings for unhealthy coping mechanisms such as alcohol abuse, minor non-graphic gun violence, brief mentions of suicide, and the historical deaths of minor characters. please stay safe! ******_ _

Frank's skull is exploding. Not literally, but that might be preferable.

Brian doesn't offer him any sympathy as he clocks in, just a stern glare. "The painkillers are going to kick in soon," Frank tells him, wincing as Brian flips on a light switch and the bartop illuminates. A rag and a spray bottle of cleaning fluid are thrust in front of him, and he picks them up reluctantly, already dreading the way that the lemon scent is going to kick his headache from a ten to a fifteen.

"This wouldn't be a problem, you know," Brian grits out as he scrubs down his half of the bar, "if you didn't insist on getting wasted every night."

"It's not every night," Frank mutters darkly, ignoring the fact that he can't remember the last time he didn't wake up puking.

"Yes, it  _ is." _ Brian's voice is too loud; Frank drops his head into his hands and resists the urge to groan. "Look, Frank, I know it's only been three weeks, but I already gave you more time off than corporate allows. I know you're dealing with a lot, and I know how you're feeling, but at some point you're going to have to accept that this is reality now."

"You have  _ no _ idea how I'm feeling, Schechter," Frank growls into his hands. His head throbs bright and painful behind his eyelids, one supernova after another. "I'm going to count stock."

Behind him, Frank hears Brian sigh, but he doesn't look back. In the stockroom, he switches off the lights and sinks down onto a crate, just trying to breathe.

*

Ray's the one to find him. "Dude, wake up." He shakes Frank's shoulder. "We need you out front. I just clocked in, but it's still too much for us to handle without you."

"Five more minutes," Frank whines, trying and failing to slap Ray's hand away.

Ray raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. "You're the one who wanted to come back to work."

"That was before I remembered that work sucks _ ass." _ Frank frowns and rubs the sleep out of his eyes. "Besides, I was out of paid leave. Corporate was pissed. The alternative was getting fired."

"That's what's going to happen now," Ray says with a sigh, "if Brian finds you sleeping in the stockroom. Again."

"Schechter wouldn't fire me for this." Frank presses his mouth into a line, offended. "He loves me."

Ray shakes his head. "I wouldn't test it, dude. Now, are you going to come peacefully or am I going to have to carry you out there?"

Frank leans back further on his crate and crosses his ankles, tilting his chin up in a challenge.

Ray glares and reaches for him. "Oh, fuck you."

*

The best thing about working at a bar, Frank reckons, is that there is always a reason to stick around after his shift is over. Before, he used to stay and make bets with Toro over which of the people they'd served would get the most shit-faced, who would go home with who, that sort of thing. Ray usually won, but that was okay. He's always been better at people-watching.

Now, Frank's reason to park himself on a barstool is to get stupidly, gloriously drunk.

"What else would you recommend for a fine young dame like me?" Frank flutters his eyelashes up at Ray, who scowls back.

"You've worked here longer than I have, Frank. You know everything we serve."

"It's no fun when you don't play along." Frank can't tell if he's slurring. He thinks it's safe to assume that he is, though, after three shots of Jack and whatever that fruity thing had been.

Ray opens up his mouth to say something else, but then Brian shows up and plants his elbows right in front of Frank so he can't pretend to not see him. "Alright, Frank, it's time to make room for the paying customers."

"I  _ am _ paying," Frank protests, his buzz making him immune to both of their glares.

"Money taken out of your paycheck doesn't count." Brian rubs a hand over his face before looking at Ray. The two of them have a silent exchange that Frank can't follow before reaching some sort of conclusion. "You need to leave, Frank. Your shift has been over for an hour."

"You can't kick me out. Not when I'm a customer."

Brian's jaw clenches. "Actually," he points to a brass sign hung above the bar that Frank's eyes have passed over a million times: WE RETAIN THE RIGHT TO REFUSE SERVICE TO ANYONE WE DEEM OVERLY INTOXICATED OR UNSAFE. "I can."

Frank gapes at him. "I'm not even drunk!" Okay, that one definitely came out slurred.

"Right." Brian sighs. "Do you want me to call a cab?"

"No. I'm not going home." That only makes Brian's frown deepen. Frank slides off of his stool, wobbling a bit when his feet hit the ground. If they don't want him here, he'll find someplace else. He's fucking resourceful.

Ray and Brian both look like they want to protest, but in the end, all Brian says is, "See you tomorrow, Frank," in his most defeated tone.

Frank ignores him, making his way to the door and pushing it open. Outside, the cool air hits his face and helps clear his mind. He's definitely not drunk — Brian has no idea what he's talking about.

His eyes catch on the glowing sign of another bar down the street. There are people hovering around the front of it in leather jackets and sequined mini dresses, swaying and leaning on one another. Perfect. Frank grins, his feet already moving towards it.

*

When Frank sees Ray's name on caller ID, his eyebrows crease. He feels like he should be mad at Ray, but he can't quite recall why. Oh well. He flips it open and holds it up to his ear, yelling to be louder than the music. "Toro! Man, what's up? Hey, do you remember what we were talking about earlier? Because I—"

"Frank." Ray is also yelling, even though it sounds like he's in a quiet place. "Where are you?"

"A bar." Frank is pretty sure he was going to say something else, but then the super cute bartender catches his eye and Frank's brain becomes preoccupied with trying to coordinate a wink. It turns into more of a lazy blink.

There's a sigh on the other end of the line.  _ “Which _ bar, Frank? There are about a million of them on this street."

"Um." Come to think of it, Frank hadn't really bothered to read the sign when he'd come in. Or if he had, the knowledge is long gone by now. "One sec. I'll ask."

He crooks his finger at the cute bartender, making a come-hither motion. The bartender darts his gaze around the room quickly before heading Frank's way. Frank grins triumphantly. He must've pulled off the slow blink after all. He leans in close enough to speak into the bartender's ear, throwing on his seductive voice. "So, hey. What's this place called?"

"The Barrel," the bartender answers, sounding relieved that that's all Frank had asked for.

Frank curls his fingers in the bartender's collar to keep him close while he says, "Thanks, cutie," before releasing him. When he holds the phone back up to his ear, Ray is making gagging noises. "What?"

"Don't do that to innocent people," Ray says. "And meet me at the curb. I'm picking you up."

*

Ray's car smells the same every time Frank rides in it, which has been nearly every night of the past three weeks. Almost raspberry, but with undertones of mold. Frank is yet to discover what kind of hidden garbage could concoct such a scent.

Ray always puts on a big show about being annoyed when he picks Frank up from a bar — about how it's  _ late _ and he's been working for  _ hours _ and he just wants to go home — but Frank tunes it out. He's pretty sure that if Ray really minded, he wouldn't keep showing up.

The car moves slowly and carefully, which Frank thinks is hardly necessary; they both know his drinking habits well enough to understand that Frank never vomits on the night of, only the morning after. Ray's just paranoid.

The speech has switched over from Ray's grievances to his concerns over what Frank is doing with his life, which is even worse. Frank stares out the window and watches the late-night Jersey traffic flow in a stream of red taillights, letting the words go in one ear and out the other. It's not any of Ray's business how Frank is coping.

The lady in the car next to them is putting on lipstick with one hand and steering with the other. It's too dark to tell, but Frank imagines that her lipstick matches the hue of the taillights. Ray keeps talking, Frank keeps ignoring him, and the road keeps flying past.

Ray's car stops outside of Frank's apartment complex. "Am I taking you to therapy in the morning?"

Frank shakes his head. "No."

"Is Brian?"

"No."

Ray sighs and hits the button to unlock the car doors. "I'll see you at nine, then."

*

Sometimes, when something becomes routine, it also becomes easy. But not this. Hauling himself into the bathroom to throw up the contents of his stomach is  _ always _ shitty.

Nine o'clock rolls around way sooner than should be allowed. Frank is still only on his first cup of coffee when Ray knocks on his door, and the painkillers haven't hit his bloodstream yet. He lets Ray in anyway, and they sit at Frank's table together with the curtains closed until Frank feels like he can speak without shattering his brain into a million shiny, splintered pieces.

"I read about this thing called IV therapy a few days ago. You pay a nurse to come to your house and hook you up to an IV, it rehydrates you and cures your hangover. Sounds like a fuckin' miracle."

Ray gets up to pour the remaining liquid in the coffee pot into two travel mugs. His voice is strained as he says, "The solution isn't a magic IV bag, Frank. The solution is just  _ not drinking." _

Frank isn't so sure about that. When he says so, Ray just sighs again. "Come on." He takes the empty mug from Frank and pushes the thermos into his hand instead. "We're already running late."

*

Therapy is, as always, the worst thing on the planet. Frank is absolutely sure that he doesn't even need to be here in the first place — what's his therapist going to do? How is Dr. Santos going to bring back the dead?

She isn't, she tells Frank for the thousandth time. She's here to help him overcome his loss and establish healthy coping mechanisms in his life.

Frank wants to bang his head against the wall. Again. And again. And again.

"Have you been journaling?" Dr. Santos rests her clipboard on her knee. Frank watches as her glasses slowly slide down her nose. She blinks and pretends not to notice.

"Yes." This is the game they play.

"Really? How has that been making you feel?" She leans forward and her glasses begin to descend at double-speed; she always acts surprised when he says something like this. He doesn't get it. After three weeks, she should know to expect a letdown.

Frank brings his legs up so they're criss-cross in the chair. He twirls one of his shoelaces between two fingers. "I lied. I haven't been journaling."

"Oh." Her smile wavers. If it hadn't been fake in the first place, Frank would probably feel bad. "Any other methods, then? Do you still have that booklet I gave you?"

It goes on that way for the entire hour; Frank says whatever she wants to hear and then takes it back, spinning them both in circles to avoid actually having to dig into anything. She probably doesn't mind, Frank reasons. He much prefers his job when he doesn't actually have to do it — surely Dr. Santos is the same way.

Ray doesn't smile hopefully like during he did the first week of therapy when Frank walks back into the reception room, but he does raise an eyebrow as he puts back the copy of  _ Us _ he'd been reading. Frank shrugs back noncommittally.

The drive home is silent. Frank stares at his feet the whole way.

*

Frank's hangover is back with a vengeance by the time he's due for work. He dry swallows two more pills, locks up his apartment, and sits on the curb outside of the complex to wait for Brian. Brian's car smells worse than Ray's, and Frank would much rather be in the latter, but their work schedules never match up so Frank will take what he can get.

"Matt is taking another after-midnight shift this week because Gabe's girlfriend got pregnant, can you believe it?" Brian always babbles on about one thing or another that's happening at the bar like it's the most exciting job in the world. It's probably a side-effect of recently being promoted to manager. Frank listens with his eyes closed, nodding along half-heartedly. At least Brian doesn't hold a grudge. "Some people are saying that Gabe's just using it as an excuse to be lazy, but I think he really loves this girl, and—"

The spiel ceases abruptly as they pull into the bar's parking lot. "You're not listening to a word I'm saying, are you?"

"My head hurts," Frank explains as both an excuse and an apology.

Brian visibly deflates. "About that, Frank. I've been thinking a lot about what to do. I worry about you, you know, and I care. I want to help."

Frank unbuckles his seat belt and reaches for the door. "Thanks, man, but can we talk about this once my stomach stops doing circus tricks?"

Brian worries his lip between his teeth. "Okay, sure, but—" Before he can finish, Frank swings the door shut.

He spends as much of his shift as he can avoiding Brian and his stormy face, until the evening rush picks up and he's forced to start mixing drinks out on the front line. Brian keeps edging up next to him even though he technically isn't a bartender, trying to slip a word in, but Frank pretends he's too busy shaking and juicing things to pay him any mind.

Then Brian picks up the entire container of ice cubes, dumps them down the sink, and says, "Oops, my bad. Looks like you better go get some more ice, Frank."

Fucking hell.

Grumbling under his breath, Frank passes off the drink he'd been working on and excuses himself to the stockroom. Brian follows him and calls his name, but he refuses to answer, instead focusing on breaking blocks of ice free with the shovel. Finally, Brian steals the bucket from him, and Frank is forced to look up.

"We need to talk, Frank. I get that you're going through a lot right now, but it's obvious that therapy isn't working."

Frank bristles. "Therapy's working."

Brian's mouth presses into a line. "The next step is something more drastic."

Frank's hands suddenly feel as cold at the ice next to him. "The next step?"

"Rehab," Brian clarifies, as if that hadn't been fucking obvious. "We can't keep letting you do this to yourself. We have to stop it before it's beyond repair."

Frank's eyes are as wide as saucers.  _ “We?" _

"Ray and I." Brian shifts on his feet guiltily.

"You got Toro in on this too?" Frank's voice is venomous. "I can't fucking believe you."

"Frank," Brian pleads, "it's because we  _ care _ about you."

"No." Frank staggers to his feet, feeling sick in a way that has nothing to do with his hangover. "Fuck you, fuck  _ that. _ I'm not going to rehab."

Brian holds out a hand and Frank wants to snap it clean off his wrist. "Hang on, hang on. There's another option." A pause. When Frank makes no moves to try and decapitate him, Brian continues. "You can either start taking therapy seriously—"

"I do take therapy seriously!"

Brian rolls his eyes. "Or we can take you here." He reaches deep into his pocket and pulls out a glossy page folded into eighths. He holds it out and Frank takes it apprehensively, his mind superimposing the word REHABILITATION on the surface before he's even got it open.

Except — no. "What the fuck is the City of Light?"

"It's not rehab," Brian says hurriedly. "It's an alternative option."

"Alternative option?" Frank stares down at the flyer, the small print swimming in his vision but not quite forming any words. "Like, alternative medicine? Smoking weed? Because I've definitely already tried that."

"No." Brian makes a face like he's in pain. "It's a place in New York. That's the name on their tourist ads, but it's usually called Lily Dale."

Frank's eyes still won't focus. "I—"

They both look up as Ray's voice booms into the room. "Frank, we really need that ice, are you—" First Ray's hair and then his face appear around the corner, and his expression falls blank as he takes in the scene in front of him. "Oh, uh. Bad time?"

Frank talks over Brian before he can try anything. "Is it true that you're trying to send me to rehab? What the  _ fuck, _ dude?"

"Not rehab," Brian says in a tired voice. "Lily Dale."

Ray shifts so he's no longer just a head hovering in the doorway. "Lily Dale? Brian, isn't that the place you were telling me about with all the mediums?"

Frank's head snaps to stare at Brian incredulously. "With all the  _ what?" _

Brian looks at Ray helplessly but only gets an apologetic shrug in return. "Mediums. You know, like psychics? You've seen movies."

"You're fucking kidding me." Frank has begun pacing back and forth across his side of the room with the ice scoop in tow. "That shit isn't  _ real, _ Brian."

"You don't know that," Brian says unconvincingly. "Plenty of people believe in it. They say it's changed their lives."

"Yeah, changed them into  _ loons." _ Frank levels the shovel at first Brian and then Ray, who shrinks back against the wall with his hands in front of his chest. With his other fist, Frank begins to crumple the page from Brian. "I'm not going to the fucking City of Light. I'm done going to therapy, too. I don't need help, I need friends who won't  _ sell me out." _

On the other side of the room, Ray looks like he's been slapped. Brian, on the other hand, has only settled into a deeper scowl. "We will send you to rehab," he says, stone-cold. "We don't want to, but if it's our only option, we will."

"Fuck you," Frank spits. With a clatter, the ice scoop falls to the ground, and he storms out.

*

Frank doesn't answer his phone when Ray calls, because this time he  _ does _ remember why he's angry. Not even all of the bottles around him could erase that.

It doesn't matter, though, because Ray finds him anyway. Maybe Frank should have stumbled into a bar that wasn't so close by.

"Hey." Ray taps his shoulder. Frank recognizes the voice and doesn't make any effort to respond. "Frank, hey. Let me drive you home."

Frank's temper gets the best of him. He spins around, woozy from the sudden movement, and hisses back, "You're not going to take me home. You're going to take me to  _ rehab." _

"Jesus fucking Christ," Ray mutters, rubbing his hand over his eyes just like Brian does. "Not right now we're not. I just don't want you to get run over or something, god."

Frank squints at him suspiciously. "Why should I believe you?"

"Have I ever lied to you?"

Honestly, Frank's vodka-addled brain is having a hard time remembering the answer to that. But Ray must take his silence as an affirmative because he grabs Frank's arm and hauls him up, pulling him through the mass of people and out the front door.

Ray puts an arm around him when he notices Frank shivering against the wind, pulling him closer. Really, Ray can't hold a grudge either. Frank burrows into Ray's side and lets him guide him to the car, mumbling a slurred, "Thank you." Ray hums back.

After a few minutes of driving, Frank asks quietly, "Brian's just bullshitting, right? He couldn't actually check me into rehab. He needs me to work, doesn't he?"

"Not if you're dead weight," Ray answers, but not unkindly. "We just want you to get better, Frank. It's hard to see you like this."

"I'm fine," Frank tries, but the effect is ruined by the way his head lolls against the seat loosely like it isn't even connected to his neck. He looks over at Ray, takes in the pinched expression on his face, and something in his chest shifts. "What am I supposed to do?"

"Start letting your therapist do her job." Ray flicks his signal and changes lanes.

Frank groans. "I hate therapy. Having a cry fest with someone I barely even know isn't going to fix things."

Ray hesitates, but only for a second. "Then go to Lily Dale."

Frank rolls his eyes at the tan interior. "Jesus, you don't actually believe in that stuff, do you?"

"What've you got to lose?" Ray skirts around the question. "Maybe you go and it doesn't work. So what? At least then you can get Brian off your back."

"He wouldn't just throw me into rehab afterward?"

Ray looks away from the road to cut him a sideways glance. "I wouldn't let him."

Frank mulls that over for a second before coming to the conclusion that, "He put you up to this, didn't he?"

"Why do you have such a hard time believing that your friends care about you?" Ray snaps, then sighs. Even in the dark, Frank can tell that he's gripping the wheel hard. "No, Frank, he didn't. God."

Frank drops his gaze to the floor. They're silent for the few minutes left in the ride to Frank's apartment, listening to the late-night deliriums of some radio DJ. Once they stop, Ray unlocks the door without a word. Frank goes to push it open, but his hand stalls. "Ray?" 

"Yeah?" He sounds exhausted.

"Can you pick me up tomorrow?"

"Therapy?"

"No." Frank takes a deep breath. "Let's go to Lily Dale."

*

"It's so nice of you to help us out here, Frank." Fabric rustles and a zipper pulls. Even from around the corner, it's all too loud for Frank's brain. What he needs is a dark, silent room, and at least four thousand bottles of water. "Seriously," Brian continues, louder like he knows exactly what Frank is thinking, "you've outdone yourself."

Frank has a really witty comeback about how it's Brian's fault this is happening in the first place, but then bile rises in his throat and he has to pull himself over the edge of the toilet seat to puke again. In the room over, Frank hears Ray murmur something sympathetic in response to his retching.

"Thank you," Frank says dully after he flushes the toilet, even though he doesn't mean it. Whatever. If he doesn't show some form of gratitude, Brian will probably pack him only left shoes and then pretend it was an accident.

Once Frank's stomach has subdued enough to keep down painkillers and Ray and Brian are done stuffing his duffel bag, they slowly make their way out of the building and to the visitor parking spot where Brian's car is waiting. After Ray throws the bag into the trunk, Frank just kind of stands there and stares.

"Dude," Ray says, "I know I carried your bag out here and all, but I'm not opening the door for you too. You're not my prom date."

Frank doesn't look at him. "This was a mistake. I'm not going."

"Like hell you're not going." Brian is standing on the other side of the car, arms folded sternly on top. Frank suspects that he's up on his tiptoes to reach.

"I'm not," Frank repeats, shaking his head. He knows now that this was a mistake — he can't leave New Jersey so some witch can sit him down and hoodoo him, or whatever the fuck. He has a job, and friends, and a  _ life _ here. A shitty, shitty life, which he's become very accustomed to, and now isn't the time to go changing things.

Frank really should have stopped shaking his head a while ago, because now that feeling is back, like someone is running their nails down a chalkboard except the chalkboard is his fucking cerebrum. Brian's stormy expression drops as he catches sight of Frank's face. "You okay?"

Frank promptly turns around and throws up into a rosebush.

"Oh my fucking god," he hears Brian mutter distantly. "I shouldn't have asked. Just get in the fucking car, Frank."

And so Frank clambers into the backseat once he's stable enough to walk, if only for the purpose of not being around when his landlord starts to ask who killed his precious rosebush. Ray does end up opening the door for him, because he's too nice for his own good; once Frank is buckled up, he even hands back a water bottle, his expression carefully schooled into parental disappointment. Frank's pretty used to it by now.

Frank knows Jersey like the back of his hand, but as soon as they get near the edges and cross over the state line, it all becomes a blur. At some point he must drift off, because a second later he blinks awake to the sight of rustic farmhouses and a serene lake. This isn't how he remembers New York.

Brian catches his eye in the rearview mirror, and his mouth quirks. "Morning, sleeping beauty."

Despite the sentiment, Frank does not feel the slightest bit royal. "My mouth tastes like death."

Ray passes back another water bottle. "How's the headache?"

Frank takes a sip while he considers that for a moment. "Better," he decides finally, because Pangaea no longer seems to be trying to split into the continents up there.

"Good." Brian flicks the wheel. "Because we're almost there."

Frank's stomach twists.

What's left of civilization slowly drops off on their left and right until they reach a sign held up by two brick columns that announces in an arc: LILY DALE ASSEMBLY. Below it, thinner letters read: THE CITY OF LIGHT.

"Well," Ray says, "I think we found it."

The car ambles along a path that doesn't look like it has been widened since the days of horse and buggy. Frank shifts to the left, trying to catch a glimpse through the front windshield instead of just staring at the fucking trees beside them, but Ray's hair is in the way. Frank bats at it. Ray either doesn't feel it or doesn't care.

Finally, they make a left turn and Frank gets to see a row of houses with wrap-around porches and long, skinny windows. None of the paint colors match their neighbors, but each shade is faded similarly. Frank is distinctly reminded of when he used to leave his comic books open in the sun and the colors would get sucked away.

The weirdest part is that they're the only car on the road. Even in front of the houses, there are no vehicles parked. "Guys? I don't mean to alarm you, but I'm pretty fucking sure that we just went through a time warp."

Ray's eyes light up, the nerd. "That would be so awesome. What if everyone around here speaks in, like, Elizabethan? If I see one person wearing a ruff, I'm staying."

Brian shoots him an unimpressed look. "I hate to disappoint, but this is still New York. Not sixteenth-century England."

Ray wilts in his seat and crosses his arms, sulking as best a six-foot tall man can. Brian ignores him, making another turn and stopping the car in front of a cream-colored building with a rickety front porch and a smokestack. He turns to Frank in the back seat and raises an eyebrow. "Here's the hotel."

_ "The _ hotel?" Frank eyes it dubiously. He's not high maintenance by any means, but this place doesn't even look new enough to have air conditioning. If he's going to dry out like a raisin in the northeast's summer heat, he's going to do it in his own damn apartment, thank you very much. "Is this our only option?"

_ "Your _ only option," Brian corrects. Frank resists the urge to punch him in the nose. "The flyer said that it's the only one in town, but the picture in there now seems to be, uh — photoshopped."

"Great. Fucking great." Frank slides out of the back seat. He finds the release on the trunk and hoists his bag out, throwing it over his shoulder, because what the hell. If he's going to hit rock bottom, he may as well commit all the way.

The middle-aged woman behind the desk in the lobby startles as the three of them walk in, but Frank is too busy being shocked by the fact that there is actually, believe it or fucking not,  _ air conditioning _ inside of this prehistoric structure to notice. She tucks her hair behind her ears and clears her throat before saying, "Welcome to the Maplewood Hotel! What can I do for you?"

Brian and Ray both look at him expectantly. Oh, so he's in charge now? Jesus Christ. "Uh, I'd like to check into a room."

"Great." She smiles like it actually  _ is _ great, which is totally weird. "Do you know how long you'll be staying with us?"

Brian jumps in before Frank has the chance to answer. Typical. "At least a week." Frank nails him with a glare that he hopes communicates how he's imagining hanging Brian up by his toes and beating him like a pinata.

Ray had wandered off to gaze at some of the art on the walls, so it's a surprise when he speaks. "Hey, what's up with these paintings? None of them have artist names on their plaques."

"They were created without human intervention," the lady behind the desk says casually, like she’s just saying it’s raining outside or something. It's fucking  _ strange. _ Frank shakes his head and focuses on the Brian pinata. Candy wouldn't spill out; maybe business cards or unsettled bar tabs.

"Huh." Ray is at least courteous enough to pretend to understand for a second. "And what does that mean, exactly?"

"The Maplewood houses spirits as well as guests. Sometimes they contribute to our gallery." She bends down to retrieve a room key; by the time she straightens back up, Ray is still blinking at her.

"You mean this place is haunted?"

The desk attendant clucks her tongue. "'Haunted' implies an unwilling host."

"Right." Ray takes a big step away from the portrait he'd been admiring. "Of course."

Frank rolls his eyes. He's about to get his room key and get the fuck out of the lobby already when Brian steps forward and rests his elbows on the desk. Oh, hell.

"So who would you say is this best psychic in Lily Dale?" Brian turns on the charm, his tone friendlier than it has been all day.

Desk attendant lady frowns. "They prefer the term medium."

Brian's smile falters. "Oh. Uh, sorry. Medium."

"All of our mediums are certified by the Lily Dale Assembly, so everyone's service is satisfactory."

Brian gives her a long, patient look. "Right, but who would  _ you _ go to?"

"I'm not supposed to—"

"We won't tell."

Her fingers twitch and she caves. Seriously, how does Brian do that? "Circe, down at the big yellow house. She'll probably have an open slot today, it's still early in the season. We'll put the fees for any services on your hotel bill."

Brian offers a winning smile and thanks her. At last, Frank snatches his room key, not even bothering to wait up for Brian and Ray. They skitter after him, leaving a wide berth around the paintings.

"This is bullshit, you know," Frank tells them as he jams the key into the lock on the doorknob of room 1F. "Haunted hotel. Yeah fucking right. That's so cheap. They're just using anything they can to stay in business."

Ray and Brian exchange a look, but they don't say anything.

Frank finally gets the door unlocked and shoves it open with his hip. It creaks loudly enough that China probably hears it before revealing a room with a single bed and pale green walls. After setting his bag down, Frank runs a finger over the top of the nightstand and raises it to eye-level. Everything's covered in a hearty layer of dust. "My lungs are going to die, Schechter. You're really going to leave me here to die?"

"You're not going to die." Brian sighs exasperatedly. "If it takes less than a week to get yourself sorted out, then call us and we'll come pick you up early."

"We could leave right now and it wouldn't make a fucking difference." The wall groans as Frank leans against it and crosses his arms. "Seriously, all this psychic shit was just made up to pedal souvenirs. I'm not going to find my fucking  _ enlightenment _ here."

"Then call us when you can prove it." Brian shakes his head, resigned.

"Prove what?"

"That it's bullshit," Brian says. "Right now, it's just your word against theirs. Once you've got evidence that it's all a magic show, we'll come get you."

Frank huffs. He doesn't need evidence, he has  _ common sense. _ But Brian's expression is tight and stubborn, the same face that gets Frank to work extra shifts and clean up lemon juice that he didn't spill, so fine. Fucking fine. Frank can go to one session, and that'll provide more than enough ammo to debunk this shit. But it'll be Brian's own fault when they drive all the way back to New Jersey just to have to turn around.

"Deal." Frank spits on his palm and sticks it out. Brian wrinkles his nose but shakes it anyway.

Ray's much more sentimental. He crowds Frank into a hug until all Frank can smell is raspberry shampoo — maybe  _ that's _ what the mysterious car scent is — and squeezes. "See you soon, dude."

"Yeah," Frank mutters back weakly, because at this point there is no air left in his lungs, seriously.

Frank locks the door once they're gone and turns his back to the window as they drive away.

*

The big yellow house's front door swings open before Frank even has the chance to knock. It's probably supposed to be mysterious, but he figures they just spotted him through the blinds.

The person on the other side of the door looks much more, well, _ normal _ than Frank had anticipated. She's dressed in a casual plaid button-down with tight jeans, and her lips are curled up into a coy sort of smile. "Welcome."

Frank tries to hide the fact that he's thrown. "Are you Circe?"

"I am merely an assistant." She bows her head slightly, and okay, Frank takes back the thing about her seeming normal. Damnit. Not a single thing has been normal for three weeks. "Circe is inside. Do you wish to meet with her?"

"If she's not busy." Frank looks at his shoes. He totally doesn't know how this works, and he probably should have asked the hotel attendant, but he'd been hesitant to strike up another conversation with someone who thinks she works with Van Gogh's floating form.

"She has a moment. Come in." The assistant steps to the side and Frank finally gets a clear view of the interior of the house. The few lamps that are on cast deep, inky shadows up the walls, and he can't see the ceiling. At the center of it all sits an older woman at an empty table with two chairs, her fingers steepled. She's staring at Frank like she can see right through him.

It's so fucking overdramatic, and Frank can't wait to rub it in Brian's  _ face. _

He nods and walks in, taking a seat across from Circe wordlessly. He's not going to give her any hints, that's for sure; Frank's psyche is on motherfucking  _ lockdown. _ She'll make up some shit about how his spirit seems troubled, and then he can tell Brian that Lily Dale is a scam for suckers and tourists. He'll be back in New Jersey before the sun even comes up tomorrow.

"I am Circe," she says calmly, eyes closed. In his peripheral vision, Frank sees Circe's assistant do the same thing as she stands against the wall. He keeps his eyes stubbornly open.

"I specialize in Shamanism, the oldest known form of spirituality, based on direct communication with spirits of the dead." Circe's lips part and her eyes snap open, glimmering in a feline way. No wonder people make horror movies about this shit.

"I am here to bridge the gap between the spirits connected to you and our mortal plane, and to provide you with insight regarding your troubles by calling upon the wisdom of those who have walked before you. I see that the past weeks have been difficult for you." She speaks slowly, unblinkingly. "Tell me, what knowledge do you seek?"

Frank leans back in his chair and looks at the dark ceiling.

"It is easier to cross the spiritual bridge when all parties are willing." Circe's tone has a snappy edge to it now. Frank stays perfectly still. This is a game of body language, of vague and clever guesswork, and Frank wants checkmate.

"Tell me what you seek," she demands. "Your ancestors wish to know."

In a droll tone, Frank says, "My ancestors are dead."

Apparently, that strikes a nerve. Circe's face clouds over.  _ "No one _ is dead in Lily Dale."

Frank sighs so deeply it probably shakes the house. "Jesus Christ, this is worse than therapy."

"Open your mind.  _ Look at me." _

Frank does neither. He just needs her to say something entirely wrong, something completely out of left field that not even Brian could spin into a positive light. Then this can all be over, and he can go home.

Instead, she says, "Amelia? Send him to Gerard."

Circe's assistant blinks her eyes open and snickers. "Oh, good call, Circe. He's perfect for Gerard."

Frank furrows his eyebrows, shocked out of his vow of silence. "What? We're done here?"

"I have a four o'clock," Circe says brusquely. "My colleague will take care of you."

"Uh." Amelia practically pulls the chair out from underneath Frank and hurries him out the front door before he can form a word of protest. He needs  _ evidence, _ damnit. "Hang on, wait, I—"

"It's the smallest white house going west," Amelia says snidely. Then, she slams the door in his face.

Frank stands on the porch for a second, trying to process what the hell just happened. He wants to go home. He wants a drink. He wants Brian to stop acting like his self-appointed life coach and come  _ pick him up _ already.

Fuck. Which way is west?

*

The shadows stretch long and grey across the dirt by the time Frank finds the right house — at least, he's pretty sure it's the right house. The temperature has dropped, but not low enough to ward off the mosquitos; Frank slaps his arms and wriggles, but it feels like they're everywhere.

The door to the little white house is cracked open. Frank stands outside for a moment, waiting for another deceivingly normal-looking assistant to sense his presence and show up and say some weird shit. When nothing happens, he shoves his foot in the gap and slowly pushes it forward. The door opens without so much as a creak. Frank steps through, letting it ease shut behind him.

The guy sitting inside could not look more different from Circe if he tried. His skin is scarily pale where hers had been dark, face smooth and young where hers had shown age. His eyes are closed and his face is framed by stringy, shoulder-length black hair, which sways dangerously close to the single candle burning on the table. The sole source of light makes his features blur hazy and soft as Frank struggles to pick them out.

Apparently, not everyone around here is good at sensing guests. He clears his throat. The guy's eyes startle open and meet Frank's for a split-second before he blows out the candle, plunging them into darkness. Some distant part of Frank's brain resigns to the fact that, well, this is it, and now he's going to be murdered and used as a life-size voodoo doll.

Then the entire room illuminates, and Frank's eyes squint and cut to the side to see the man standing next to a light switch with a guilty smile playing on his lips. "Sorry. Force of habit."

Without the theatrical lighting, the place just looks like any old house, really. He can see books now, stacked into leaning towers on the table with loose papers tucked in between. Somehow, there are even more books crammed into a squat shelf against the far wall; bottles glint in a row on top of it, purple and green. A couch is pushed against the wall and a hallway stems off of the room, but it's dark and Frank can't see what it leads to.

He swallows and finds his voice. "Um. I'm here to see Gerard?"

The guy grins more sincerely and sticks out a hand. "Nice to meet you."

He seems more laid back than Circe, so Frank shakes his hand after a moment of hesitation. "No assistant?"

Gerard looks down sheepishly. "Not yet. Take a seat, if you'd like. I'm assuming someone else rejected you and now you're here for a reading?"

"Yeah." Frank blinks. "Did Circe tell you?"

"No, no. That's just how it works." Gerard flaps a hand in the air and sits, waiting for Frank to do the same. Once he does, Gerard steeples his fingers almost identically to how Circe had and closes his eyes. "I am a medium who specializes in—"

Frank sighs internally. "Shamanism?"

Gerard's eyes fly open. "Uh, yes. Have you studied Spiritualism before?"

"No." Frank kind of feels like flipping the table, because fucking hell, of course they're all just reciting scripts. He's wasting his fucking time. _ Brian's _ wasting his fucking time. "Just a guess."

"Oh. Alright." Gerard composes himself. He gives up on the mysterious pose and instead leans back, eyes in the direction of Frank but not quite looking at him. It's unsettling. "What's troubling you, Frank?"

Frank is gearing up to re-engage in his tried-and-true silent treatment method when his stomach drops. "I never told you my name."

Gerard gestures vaguely at the empty air surrounding them, shrugging casually. "No need. They did."

"They told you," Frank repeats flatly, trying to sound unimpressed. The hotel could have called and spilled that information; there's an explanation somewhere.

"Yeah, your parents." Gerard's eyelids slide shut again. "Same name as your father, huh?"

Frank's mouth goes dry. "What the fuck?"

Gerard shushes him. "And your mother — they're trying to show me something, hang on."

Well, fuck. That's no issue, because Frank couldn't come up with words if he tried.

"I see…grass. Purple irises. It's peaceful." Gerard gnaws on his lip like he's concentrating really hard. "Do you know that place? You're from New Jersey, right?"

"I — You saw my friend's license plates," Frank rationalizes.

Gerard makes no comment on Frank's speculations. "Fuck, it disappeared." His mouth twists to the side. "That doesn't mean anything to you, then? Maybe it's just a projection of your psyche."

Frank rolls his eyes. Uh huh. Because his psyche is so goddamn  _ peaceful. _

"Ancestors don't always know what's helpful and what isn't." Gerard's eyebrows crease. "I sense a lot of unease from you. The thing you're looking for — it weighs on you greatly."

"Yeah, right." Frank injects sarcasm into his voice to cover up the way it shakes. "Of course I'm uneasy, I don't even know you. I'm not looking for anything."

Gerard hums noncommittally. "Your parents. They were in a crash?"

Something cold squeezes Frank's throat. "How do you know about that?"

"They show me police sirens. Broken glass." Gerard's voice goes soft. "It was recent, wasn't it?"

"Three weeks ago on the turnpike. They were in an accident." Frank is taken aback by his own words. In all the days since the tragedy, he hadn't once said it aloud. Not to his therapist, not to Brian or Ray. Of course, everyone in his life knows about it, but not because Frank had told them; the front page of the paper and a sympathetic report from the nine o'clock news anchors had been enough. A local newspaper wouldn't make it this far out in New York, though. Right?

"No, no." Gerard shakes his head. His eyes look distant and unfocused, like they're zeroed in on things that Frank can't see. This has to be an act. "I see a crash, but no accident."

"What?" Frank's heart seizes. He starts, almost lunging across the table.  _ "What?" _

"Frank, I can't quite—" Gerard takes a deep breath. "Fuck, my concentration snapped." He looks at his palms and then to the ceiling, blinking like he'd just woken up. "They're gone. Damnit."

"Then bring them back!" Frank says shrilly. "Tell me what the fuck that means!"

Gerard frowns. "It doesn't — work like that. I can't call upon spirits that don't want to be found."

"Bullshit!" Frank stands up abruptly, his chair screeching against the floor and wobbling. "What is this, some kind of scam to keep me coming back? Exploiting my parents' death for a fucking paycheck? What the fuck is  _ wrong _ with you?"

"Frank, no. I wasn't—"

"Save it," Frank growls. The door slams extra hard behind him.

*

Frank had seen the wreckage himself. A silver Jetta on its side, hidden against a backdrop of broken forest. He'd gaped, open-mouthed, at the men in uniform as they cut open the dented machine and reached through the shattered glass to pull his parents out. They wiped away blood and took pulses, trying to restart still hearts, until the announcement rung out like a gunshot to Frank's temple. No survivors.

Screaming, pounding on the back of the ambulance — it was a  _ mistake. _ Frank yelled those words until he went hoarse, begging the officers not to turn their heads. It had to be a mistake. People don't just die like that, on their way to work in business casual. Cancer snuffs them out, or old age, or a something else that doctors don't have pills for.  _ Parents _ don't just die like that.

He'd buried them. His aunt had said that night, in her black dress with tears on her cheeks, that no twenty-three year old should have to see their parents be put in the ground. Voice shaking, he'd told her that he wasn't. Because people don't die like that.

But no one had listened. And by the time they got around to throwing him into therapy, he had nothing left to say.

And now it's all just a part of some guy's party trick?

Brian picks up on the first ring. "Come get me, motherfucker," Frank snarls.

"Hello to you too. Are they frauds?"

Frank's jaw clenches so hard it hurts. "Yes."

"Mm. See, I believe you, but the court requests evidence."

"The court can go fuck itself," Frank snaps. "Come  _ get _ me, Brian. I can't stay here."

"What happened?"

"Nothing," Frank grits out. "I just can't."

"You know what the deal is, Frank." Brian is being unbearably rational. "I get that it's tough to talk about what happened, but sometimes things have to get worse before they get better. This is how people heal."

"That doesn't even make any sense!" Frank yells. The sound echoes off of the empty hotel room walls.

Brian is silent for a moment. "The hotel serves dinner, Frank, I saw it on a sign. You should go have something to eat and try to calm down."

"I am calm!" Frank's breathing comes irregularly; when did the room start spinning?

"Uh huh. Take care of yourself, okay? We're thinking of you. Ray says hi."

"Schechter, you fucking piece of shit, if you don't come get me I swear to god I'll—"

The line goes dead. 

*

Frank has no appetite, and the only drink in the hotel is water. What the fuck? Why does he have to stay in a place built when dinosaurs roamed the Earth and before the invention of the minibar?

He's under the bedsheets, tossing and turning, having reached the conclusion that sleep will be better than sitting around sober. He misses bars, he misses cute guys buying him beers, he misses having an excuse to not think straight. Fuck, he misses  _ Jersey. _

The realization hits Frank so suddenly that he sits bolt upright in bed. There had been bottles in Gerard's house. Frank hadn't noticed any labels, but at this point, anything with an alcohol content will do — and Gerard's front door had been open last time. The moon had barely been a sliver on Frank's walk back to the hotel. Under the guise of darkness, he could get in and out of there undetected, and Gerard would probably never notice.

It's perfect.

The front desk attendant is already gone for the night, so Frank makes it out of the hotel without a single holdup. The walk to Gerard's feels shorter, somehow, now that something worthwhile is waiting at the other end.

The door is closed. Frank pauses briefly, casting his gaze down both sides of the street, before trying the knob. It's unlocked.

The room is dark, but Frank still remembers the layout from earlier. He creeps forward. The bottles should be right on top of the old bookshelf, which is on the other side of the room. The table is in the center; he reaches for it now, trying to get his bearings, when—

His hand brushes something warm, and he jumps about a million feet in the air. "Fuck!"

Frank is not a very good thief.

The warm thing shifts, and Frank immediately lets go, reeling backwards and pressing himself against the wall. There's a groan, and then Gerard's voice says, "Amelia, if it's you again, I swear to god I'll tell Circe what really happened to her cat."

Fabric rustles, and then a candle on the table flickers to life. Frank presses himself further into the wall and holds his breath. He just wants a  _ drink, _ damnit.

"Amelia?"

Oh, god. Gerard picks up the candle and begins to carry it around the perimeter of the room, its warm glow bouncing off of the walls. As Gerard walks past the bottles on the bookshelf, Frank's gut twists in envy. If he stays still enough, Gerard will probably give up, and then Frank can grab a bottle and get the fuck out of here. He just has to—

That train of thought derails in Frank's head, because now Gerard is standing right in front of him.

The heat of the candle radiates onto Frank's face. He looks up at Gerard, whose eyes are dark, endless tunnels. The dude hadn't seemed this scary earlier, Frank's pretty sure. He swallows hard.

"Um. Hey."

"Frank?" Gerard sounds perplexed, but not necessarily angry. His breath makes the flame dance. "I hate to break it to you, but we aren't exactly in working hours."

"Oh, really?" Frank rubs the back of his neck, not brave enough to meet Gerard's eyes anymore. "My bad. I'll leave."

Before Frank can run for the door, Gerard reaches beside his shoulder and flicks on the light switch, unintentionally pinning him on one side. The overhead lighting turns Gerard back into a normal, harmless guy. Well, normal for Lily Dale.

"I didn't mean to fall asleep, though," Gerard continues unnecessarily. "I was talking to a spirit, I bet she's pissed that I dozed off on her."

_ Her. _ Like the spirits are real people, like holding a conversation with them is equivalent to gossiping with your neighbor over a cup of coffee. The people in this place are fucking crazy.

"I'm sure she'll…forgive you," Frank offers. "I should really—"

But Gerard grabs Frank's arm as he turns. His grip is so gentle that it catches Frank off guard. "What are you really here for, Frank? Is it about your parents?"

Frank tenses. "No."

Gerard doesn't look convinced. "If it is, we can talk about it. When spirits leave abruptly, it's normal to have a lot of questions."

Frank rips his arm out of Gerard's clutch. "It is  _ not," _ he insists, teeth practically bared. Gerard won't wipe that stupid skeptical expression off of his face. "I just wanted a drink, okay?"

Gerard rocks back on his heels, eyebrows furrowed. "What?"

"A drink." Frank jerks his thumb in the direction of the bookshelf. Gerard's eyes follow, and the confusion clears off of his face, replaced instead by something like pity.

"Shit, Frank, those aren't—" He moves to grab one, unscrewing the cap and holding it under Frank's nose. "They're oils."

"Lavender," Frank mutters after a deep inhale, not even bothering to keep the sorrow out of his voice. He has spent a lot of time feeling like a dumbass, but this is an exceptional low.

"Helps to relax clients, sometimes." Gerard recaps the bottle and grips it by the neck. "Sorry to disappoint, but we're a dry county."

"Brian set me up," Frank realizes, a little reverent, but mostly bitter. "That son of a bitch."

"Brian?" Gerard raises his eyebrows.

"Oh, right, you don't know who he is because he's still alive." As soon as Frank says it, he wants to take it back. Because, okay, even though Gerard and the rest of his medium friends are obviously conning people for money, he's also not dialing the police to announce the fact that Frank totally just broke into his house. If there are even police in Lily Dale. "I mean, I didn't mean, I'm not saying you're—"

By some stroke of luck, Gerard only smiles at his blundering. "It's fine, Frank. Is he your boyfriend?"

Frank chokes on his own spit and then coughs, because  _ wow, _ for someone who had known everything a few hours ago, Gerard could not be more wrong. "No — no way. Just a friend. And my boss, actually, too."

"Oh." Is there color in Gerard's cheeks? "Um. My apologies. Where do you work?"

"A bar." Frank is still looking over Gerard's shoulder at the door. Not that he has a game plan anymore; where is he supposed to get wasted in a dry county?

"I've never been to a bar," Gerard says thoughtfully. Frank's head whips back to him.

"What? You've never been to a bar?" Frank gives him a once-over. He's gotten pretty good at estimating age during his time in the business, and Gerard is definitely old enough to get in. Probably even older than Frank.

Gerard shrugs, obviously oblivious to what he's missing out on. "There's not one here, and I don't ever leave, really."

Frank is openly staring now, but he can't be bothered to care. Keeping people in one place, isolated from the outside world? From alcohol? The City of Light is a fucking cult. It's got to be.

But before Frank can ask about that or, more likely, run as fast as he can in the other direction, Gerard sighs and changes the subject. "Actually, Frank, I'm kind of glad you showed up." Frank thinks it's nice of him to phrase it that way. "I wanted to apologize."

"Apologize?" Frank echoes.

"For upsetting you earlier," Gerard clarifies. "Technically it was out of my control, but I hate seeing anyone walk away from a reading worse off than they started. I, ah — I'd like to offer you another session to make up for it, if you're willing. Free of charge."

Frank frowns. "Like, right now?" What happened to working hours?

"Well, if you want," Gerard says after a moment of consideration. "All I've got booked for tomorrow is a three o'clock, though, so it's up to you."

"Thanks, but. I don't want to talk about me anymore." It comes out harsher than intended.

Gerard's hopeful face vanishes. "That's fine. Just an idea."

"Tell me about you," Frank says suddenly, surprising himself.

"Me?"

Frank nods, warming to the idea. Maybe this way he'll find out if Brian accidentally handed him over to a cult organization. "You know. Even it out. I should know who you are before you go all Professor X on my mind again."

The corner of Gerard's mouth turns downward. "I'm not a telepath. All I do is call upon and communicate with the ghosts that follow you."

Gerard either doesn't notice or doesn't mind Frank's sardonic expression, because he guides him over to the table and pulls out a chair before taking his own seat on the opposite side. Frank kind of wants to ask what ghosts are supposedly clinging to him, but he holds his tongue, because it's not like this stuff is  _ real _ — besides, they're talking about Gerard now.

When Frank fails to do anything besides sit there and look dumb, Gerard smiles patiently and asks, "What do you want to know?"

Suddenly, Frank desperately misses the dimness of the earlier candlelight; he feels too exposed now, Gerard's expectant gaze making him squirm. For the lack of anything better, Frank goes with the first thing that comes to mind: "Were you, like, born in Lily Dale?"

"I was born in, like, New Jersey." Gerard's smile isn't mean enough to be mocking, but it still makes Frank flush. "Moved away when I turned eighteen. Small world, huh?"

"Yeah," Frank agrees absently. "Wait, so how'd you end up here?"

"Believe it or not, when you can talk to dead people, there really aren't many other places to go," Gerard says. "Once I realized my abilities, things changed a lot back home. Not everyone saw it as a gift. Things are better here."

"What happened?" Frank asks before he can stop himself. His mind is conjuring up a modern-day Salem Witch Trials story, complete with pitchforks and torches, just like the illustrations in his high school history textbook that he used to draw dicks and mustaches on.

Frank wonders for a second if he's pushed too far, until Gerard shrugs stiffly. "They shunned me. I didn't mean to reveal myself, I just slipped up. A kid from my school was crying in the bathroom over his girlfriend. She'd committed suicide, but her spirit was there. She spoke to me, so I passed on the message to him…it was so sad." He's quiet for a beat, staring at the floor, before he shakes himself out of it. "She told me intimate things, things that I shouldn’t have known, and I didn’t know how to keep my mouth shut. Basically, the kid was spooked, and news travels fast in a small town. I knew that what I could do wasn't typical, but it didn't seem like such a big deal until everyone started avoiding me. My parents weren't thrilled about having a freak for a son, and neither was the majority of the student body…my little brother stuck around, though. Helped me find this place. He visits a lot, you might run into him."

"I'm not going to be here that long," Frank says without thinking, then regrets it. "I mean, I have a life to get back to."

"I get it," Gerard assures him. He looks more relaxed now. "Trust me, I'm used to people having different lifestyles than me."

"How did you—" Frank bites his lip. He has another question, but the phrasing isn't right. "How did you manage to get, like, a read on me earlier when Circe couldn't? Why was it different?"

"You seem like a bit of a skeptic." Gerard eyes him. Frank's pretty sure that's the understatement of the century — a unicorn could gallop into the room and turn him purple and he'd still call it a horse in costume. "All mediums are trained to deal with that, because a lot of people doubt Spiritualism. Circe is somewhat less patient than me. She's the best at what we do, so she doesn't want to waste her time. I'm more willing to invest in people, I suppose." He pauses. "Most outsiders who don't believe in mediumship still try, though. That's easier than facing what the rest of the world tells them, usually, and it's better than thinking that those they love are really gone for good."

"But that's not me," Frank says. "I don't think any of this is legitimate. I don't want to."

Gerard raises an eyebrow. "Then why are you here? Thinking like that won't help you heal."

"I don't  _ need _ to heal. I'm not broken."

"I don't think the opposite of healing is broken," Gerard says slowly. "If anything, it's human."

After that, Gerard gazes at him so intensely that Frank can't bear to maintain it. It's not like earlier when Gerard was looking through and around him; now, he's staring right at Frank, reaching into his ribcage and squeezing. Even without the eye contact, Frank can't take it. He has to change the subject.

"She talked about you like you were dirt," he says in a rush, plucking the first idea out of his head. "Circe, I mean. Where does she get off thinking that she's the best at this when you got me to talk?"

"She  _ is _ the best." Gerard's mouth pulls to the side and he crosses his arms. "I mean, the Lily Dale Assembly could never officially rank us, but everyone knows."

"But you did a better job with me," Frank insists. "And I must be the same as, like, half the people you get. That has to mean something."

"I wouldn't say that." Gerard's eyes glimmer, but it's gone so fast that Frank is sure he imagined it. "I don't know, I guess you could say I'm pretty low on the totem pole around here. It doesn't really have anything to do with my service, it's just the status quo."

"Well, why?" Frank challenges. "Is it because you're young?"

"That might be a part of it." Gerard's eyes flit away. "It mostly has to do with what the Assembly thinks of me."

"They don't like you?"

"They like me enough," Gerard says ambiguously. "To get certified as a medium around here, you have to be approved by them. There's testing and paperwork. Part of that requires a letter of reference from your church's Pastor, since, even though it might not seem like it, we technically are a Christian organization."

When Gerard falls silent, Frank prompts, "And?"

"I wasn't in the best standing with my church," he says. "Considering I'm, you know. Agnostic. And gay."

"Oh."

"Yeah," Gerard agrees on an exhale. "It's a miracle they let me join in the first place, so I'm not really in any position to push it."

That makes sense, Frank supposes. If he had no other place to go, he'd probably behave too. But. Still. "That's bullshit."

"It's life." Gerard shrugs. "At least this way my abilities can help people instead of scaring them."

"That doesn't mean they should get away with—”

The gentle brush of Gerard's fingertips on the back of Frank's hand stops him. "It's okay, Frank. It's the job."

Frank looks down at their touching hands and swallows. It occurs to him, suddenly, that the plan hadn't been to stay at Gerard's place. "Shit, what time is it?"

"Um." Frank glances around the room, but Gerard doesn't even bother. There's no clock. Frank feels for his cell, but his pockets are empty. "I'm not sure. Late?"

"They don't lock up the hotel, do they? Shit." Frank scrambles out of his seat. He should be back in bed by now, pleasantly buzzed, not talking like old friends with some con artist.

"I don't think so," Gerard says, but he doesn't sound very confident. "Do you want me to walk you back?"

"I'll be fine," Frank says, one foot already out the door. "Thanks for—" Frank hesitates. He's not really sure what he's thankful for. Gerard distracting him from wanting to drink? Not prying about his parents? Treating him like a normal dude, not a basket case?

Gerard seems to get it anyway. He smiles softly. "You're welcome, Frank."

Inexplicably, the stars have come out for his walk back.

*

The new location doesn't disorient Frank as he wakes up. No, the thing that throws him is that he's  _ not hungover. _

He has a complimentary breakfast of a dry biscuit and burned eggs and showers in a bathroom so tiny that even he can reach the ceiling. Then he paces around in his hotel room for a few hours, fighting the urge to call Brian and Ray again. He's not going to pick up the phone until he has indisputable evidence.

And, well. The best place to get such a thing seems to be at Gerard's.

Gerard doesn't look surprised to see him. He's dressed more primly than the day before in a black button-down with a crystal pendant resting between the collar points. "You really don't like scheduling appointments, huh?"

Frank shifts on his feet. "Uh. Was I supposed to?"

Gerard only smiles and holds the door open wider. "Come in."

"Are you okay if I read you today?" They settle down at the table again. Different books are open this time and Frank doesn't recognize any of the stray papers as the same ones from yesterday. Whatever organizational system is in place here is beyond him.

"If you can find them," Frank says, knowing he sounds crazy. He's only humoring Gerard; no one is going to find his parents unless they go dig them up.

Gerard bites his lip and looks uncertain. "I might suggest that we try a contact reading this time, if you'll allow me."

Frank lifts an eyebrow at him. "English, dude."

"What I'm trying to say is that we'll likely get the same results over and over if we don't strengthen our connection. Your body basically acts as an anchor point for the spirits that trail you, which means the bond between medium and client can make a big difference." Gerard takes a breath and reaches his hands across the table, palms-up. "So. Um."

"Oh," Frank says, finally getting it. His hands find Gerard's and clasp them. Something warm zings up Frank's spine, and he wonders absently if that means that it's working. He squeezes Gerard's hands, testing to see if it'll happen again.

Gerard squeezes back gingerly, the high points of his cheeks a bit colored. He clears his throat. "I'll start now."

Frank nods and slouches forward on his elbows, waiting in silence while Gerard's eyes slide shut. Maybe it's his imagination, but Gerard's hands feel like they're growing warmer, the heat transferring to Frank.

"They're here," Gerard breathes. Frank catches himself leaning forward and straightens, because it's not like he's actually into this. It's not his fault if the theatrics are convincing.

Gerard's mouth turns downward. "They don't wish to talk right now."

"Are you kidding? They never shut up when they were living."

"Spirits can be fickle." Gerard's expression is pinched in concentration; his hands are radiating heat but somehow not sweating. "I'm trying, Frank, but they don't wish to be reached."

Frank twitches. "Can't we, like, leave a voicemail?"

Gerard shakes his head absently. "All I feel is remorse. Pain."

"Well, duh. You try dying on your only child without feeling remorse and pain."

"Frank, how well did you actually know your parents?"

Frank's brows furrow, because what kind of question is that? He'd lived with them for eighteen years. They'd raised him. Of course he knew them.

But then Gerard's words from yesterday float back to him.  _ A crash, but no accident. _ He tries to squash the seed of doubt, but it's choking. There's no way he could have missed something monumental enough to make that true. There's no way someone would plan that.

Gerard's unnaturally warm fingertips brush his wrists, and he snaps back to focus. "Frank? You okay?"

"Fine." Frank retracts his hands hastily and folds them in his lap to hide the way they're shaking. "You have a three o'clock, don't you?"

"Yeah, an hour ago," Gerard says, nonplussed. His eyes turn doleful as he asks, "Are you sure you're alright?"

"I'm fine," Frank repeats. "I just — I should go."

"Sure," Gerard says quietly. Frank can't stand to meet his eyes. "Let me know if you need anything, okay? I'll be here."

Frank doesn't answer, because he's already out the door.

*

The hotel's floorboards creak even when no one is stepping on them and the wind outside howls woefully like dying wolves. It's one in the morning, and Frank has never been further from sleep.

If he can pass out at the bar, he should be able to drift off anywhere — still, as he watches the nightstand tremble, he can't help feeling like a little kid again, waving his fists at the monster under the bed while his mom laughed.

He rolls out of bed for the umpteenth time and shoulders the comforter like a cape, stumbling to the door in the dark and feeling for the lock with his fingers. Once he's confirmed that it's still bolted, he turns back to bed, trying to ignore the way the curtains flutter in his peripheral. The windows are shut tight and the air conditioning isn't strong enough to make a feather dance, let alone dust-covered upholstery. It must be a trick of the eye.

Still, as Frank fumbles back to bed, he can't deny the cold touch that spreads through his chest like someone just dumped ice-water on him. It's been awhile since he's spent the night sober, he reasons, not accounting for yesterday. Maybe this is normal and he just doesn't remember.

Another icy feeling runs through him and he ignores it, tangling himself back into the sheets and stubbornly planting his face in the pillow. Haunted hotels are a  _ gimmick. _ The lady down in the lobby is probably messing with the thermostat and cackling right now, and he's not going to give anyone the satisfaction of falling for it.

The chill runs down his back and he sucks in a breath, his stuttering heartbeat the only noise in the perfectly silent room. Then right in Frank's ear, a gravelly voice whispers unmistakably,  _ "Frank." _

Frank jumps up and throws off the covers, slamming the fucking door behind him.

*

When no one answers, Frank gives up rapping on the door and goes for the knob instead. Invading Gerard's home without permission hadn't turned out too poorly last time, all things considered. The door is unlocked once again, and it opens with barely a hiss. Jesus, the crime rate must be next to zero around here. Either that, or the whole talking-to-dead-people thing means that Gerard doesn't fear getting murdered.

It's dark inside, so Gerard is probably asleep. Lucky bastard. Frank calls his name, but there's no answer.

He tries again, hand skating over the wall until he locates the light switch. In normal circumstances, Frank can imagine it would be rather rude to bust into someone's house at ass o'clock in the morning and blind them with overheads, but Frank is pretty far past caring. Home invasion isn't the worst thing that's happened all night.

But the room is empty. Even the books are shut. "Gerard, seriously, where the fuck are you?"

Frank follows the hallway attached to the back of the room and looks for more switches as the light begins to bleed away. He can still feel breath on his neck. The hall is much less intimidating when illuminated; at the other end, Frank finds a modest kitchen with cream tiling. Also vacant. He pushes open another door on the left to find a bedroom. The walls glow yellow-orange once Frank finds a lamp, but there's no lump under the bedsheets. "Gerard?"

He ignores the odd feeling of abandonment and marches back the way he came, pausing only to quickly uncap the bottles on the bookshelf and make sure that they are, in fact, not a secret alcohol supply hiding in plain sight. No luck.

Whatever. He didn't want to see Gerard anyway.

He takes an indirect route back to the Maplewood with the idea that a longer walk will tire him out enough to sleep through whatever fake supernatural activity the hotel staff cooks up. He's in no hurry to get back. The town of Lily Dale really is, more or less, a big rectangle with streets intervening at parallels. It's not like he can get  _ lost. _

Except, then he kind of does.

He remembers wandering past a sign for South Street and another sign promising the Leolyn Woods, and that hadn't sounded too bad. He could get down with a nature walk. But the cleared paths slowly closed in, and with moonlight as his only aid, it's all he could do to find the most frequented trails and try not to get turned around in a big circle. And, of course, he'd left his phone in the hotel room again.

A surge of relief floods through him as the path he's on widens more than he's seen in the past half hour. It's got to be the exit. He rushes forward, almost losing his footing on a tangle of roots, before stumbling out into a clearing.

A clearing. Not the exit.

He's about to curse and brain himself against the nearest tree trunk when he hears a voice. Not gravelly and cold like whatever the fuck had happened in the hotel, but soft and animated. Familiar.

Frank edges further into the clearing and sees a tree stump large enough to host a picnic on. Even in the silvery moonlight, he recognizes the figure sitting cross-legged on top of it as Gerard. He's talking with his hands, gesturing and conversing with someone that Frank can't see. Someone that probably isn't even  _ there. _ Fuck, the dude is either brainwashed by this so-called Lily Dale Assembly or genuinely certifiable.

Frank stands perfectly still, not wanting to draw attention to himself, before coming to the conclusion that slowly backing away and carrying on with his fruitless search for the exit is his best course of action. He holds his breath and creeps backward, until —  _ snap. _

Gerard's murmuring abruptly ceases and Frank glares at the traitorous branch he'd stepped on. Slowly, Gerard shifts on the stump until he's looking at Frank. Without the tree cover blocking him from the moon, his eyes are bright and chilling. "Frank? Kind of late for a walk, don't you think?"

Frank's mouth goes dry, but he takes a breath and composes himself. "I should say the same to you."

"I wasn't walking." Gerard beckons him over with a tilt of his head and Frank feels his feet start to move. "Couldn't sleep?"

Frank sits down on the stump with him after a brief internal debate of his tired legs versus the tiny creatures that could be crawling in the wood. His legs win, but he can't help thinking about how he never runs into the problem of being lost in the wilderness in Jersey. Ugh. "That hotel is creepy, man."

Gerard shudders and makes a face. "You don't have to tell me. I stayed there for a week while I was waiting to move into the place I have now, and there were so many spirits wandering around that I couldn't get any of them to shut up long enough to sleep."

"Earplugs don't work on the dead?"

Gerard looks at him sideways, a tiny smile gracing his features. "Unfortunately." He pauses. "Are you okay? From earlier? I've been worried."

"It's all good," Frank lies, itching to change the subject. "Who were you talking to?"

"Oh, that was my grandmother." Gerard looks at his knees. "Elena."

"Yeah?" Frank can tell that there's more there, he just isn't sure which questions to ask.

It works anyway. "A lot of the spirits I communicate with come and go, but she's always around. I think it's because we were so close when she was living. She was actually, ah — the first one I ever saw. Spirit, I mean. Back in Jersey, after she passed away, she started showing up in my basement and speaking with me." He shakes his head self-deprecatingly. "I thought I'd lost it."

_ Frank _ kind of thinks that Gerard has lost it, but he keeps that to himself for right now. "Is she good company?"

"The best." Gerard's eyes crinkle and he grins lopsidedly at Frank. "We were talking about you, actually."

Frank shrinks back self-consciously. "You were? Why?"

Gerard shrugs. "I was just telling her about how unusual it is that your parents didn't want to talk today. Normally I handle things better than that."

"What'd she think?" Frank asks, then immediately wants to smack himself. They're talking about Gerard's hallucinations of a  _ dead woman. _ Jesus.

"That I'm being too hard on myself. Like usual," Gerard says. "Don't worry, she doesn't gossip."

"Reassuring." Frank blinks. It takes a lot more effort than usual to pry his eyelids back open.

Gerard must notice, because he offers, "Want me to show you the way out of here?"

"If you want," Frank says passively. "I'm not in any rush. It's not like I'll be able to sleep in that damned hotel anyway with Casper getting all hot and heavy in my ear."

Gerard's nose scrunches up. "Did you just sexualize a children's cartoon?"

Frank rolls his eyes. "I'm tired, okay? Cut me some slack."

Gerard laughs at him before sobering, scratching the side of his face. "If you really don't want to go back to the Maplewood, I've got extra space at my house. You know. If you want."

Frank sighs. "Just when I'd thought my couch surfing days were over."

"You can have the bed," Gerard says hurriedly. "Seriously, I usually fall asleep on the couch with a book anyway. It's no big deal."

Frank eyes him. "You just don't want me to show up all grouchy to our next session, do you?"

Gerard grins, bright in the darkness. "That may be a contributing factor."

"Typical." Frank huffs. "You better lead the way, then."

Gerard slides off of the stump and starts walking as soon as his feet hit the ground, but before he can get too far, Frank reaches for his arm and grabs his attention. "Hey. Thank you."

Though Gerard shrugs, Frank can see the tiny smile pushing at the corners of his mouth. "Yeah, of course. No problem."

*

Frank hears no other noise in the house when he wakes up, so he thinks it's safe to assume Gerard is still lost in dreamland. After minutes spent mustering motivation, Frank rolls out of Gerard's bed and zombie-walks into the kitchen.

The coffee is right on the counter and easy to find, and the machine is a fairly similar model to what Frank has back home, so it's a no-brainer to get a pot brewing. He tells himself that he's being a good guest by making the coffee, but really, he just needs some fucking caffeine.

Gerard must have a sixth-sense that involves the smell of coffee beans, because he stumbles into the kitchen just as Frank is pouring the steaming beverage into two mugs. Frank looks up at him as he hands one over and almost smiles. The dude's hair is beyond fucked-up, huge and surpassing any level of bedhead that Frank has witnessed before. Without meaning to, Frank thinks about Ray and his impressive 'fro. It makes something ache under his ribs.

"Thank you," Gerard mumbles, but it mostly comes out as a slurp. Frank nods and takes a sip of his own, letting it burn his tongue.

"Creamer," he says after he swallows. Gerard points to the fridge wordlessly, mouth and nose still buried in his mug.

It's alarmingly intimate, Frank thinks as he skirts around Gerard in the tiny kitchen, to wake up and drink coffee with someone. They hadn't even slept in the same bed, for fuck's sake — but Gerard's in pajamas with the Death Star printed all over them and a baggy t-shirt, and somehow it's worlds away from having a cup with Toro before therapy.

"Are you coming back later?" Gerard asks when he finally comes up for air.

"Yeah, probably," Frank says. He only adds  _ probably _ to sound casual; he knows he will, because it's not like he has anywhere else to be. First, though, he has to get out of these fucking clothes. If he inhales too deeply, all he can smell is trees and sweat.

"Cool." Gerard nods, his hands moving around on his mug to find the warm spots. "You can just let yourself in again, if you want. I think we're past all the formalities."

"Mostly my fault," Frank agrees. One side of Gerard's mouth lifts in quiet amusement, and Frank can't help but be amazed by his capacity to forgiving Frank's fuck-ups. Brian definitely would have poured seltzer water all over him by now.

After that they drink their coffee in comfortable silence, both of them still crossing over from sleep to wakefulness. It's almost a shame when Frank finishes his cup and has to go.

*

Gerard is talking to himself again when Frank walks in. He sits up straighter and the front two feet of his chair drop back to the ground when he notices Frank's presence, clearing his throat and casting a shifty glance to the empty air in front of him. "Uh, we weren't talking about you."

His guilty tone of voice tells Frank that that's  _ exactly _ what they were talking about, but he lets it slide. "Elena?"

"Yeah." Gerard nods. Then, after a pause, "She's gone now."

"I can come back later if that's better."

"No, you're fine." Gerard raises a hand to beckon him over to the table, and Frank chokes on his own spit.

"Dude. Uh?" He coughs, trying to make his voice less of a squeak. "Where the fuck is your hand?"

"Huh?" Gerard finally looks away from Frank to where his hand is — or  _ isn't. _ His eyebrows furrow as he wiggles the stump of his wrist experimentally, like he's just now noticing. "Oh. Yeah, that happens sometimes."

_ "Sometimes?" _ Frank thinks back to holding Gerard's hands across the table; they'd been warm, alive, and definitely  _ visible. _

"It's still here, look." To demonstrate, Gerard picks up a thin stack of papers and waves them in the air. Frank can see crinkles where fingers should be holding on, but there  _ isn't a hand. _

"So you're telekinetic now, too," Frank reasons weakly. Mostly, he's just working on not passing out. "And an amputee."

"No, fucking hell." Gerard rolls his eyes. "Come here."

When Frank does nothing but stand there and look dumb, Gerard pushes his chair back with a groan and comes to him instead. Before Frank realizes what's happening, Gerard takes his hand, looking up at him. "See?"

"Oh my god," Frank barely manages to say, because that's definitely Gerard's hand in his. Gerard's invisible hand. "You people drugged me."

"Jesus Christ, you will believe anything but the truth." Gerard drops his hand. Frank tries to hide his relief. "Sorry for freaking you out. I didn't exactly plan on showing you that."

Frank can do nothing but stare at him pathetically. Gerard winces and looks away.

"I, uh, I'm not sure why it happens. Sometimes when I talk to Elena parts of me just start to…disappear, I guess. I can't really control it, but they always come back." He lifts his hand again and Frank watches his wrist twist. The air above it almost glimmers as pale color bleeds back into the lost form. It could just as easily be a trick of the light.

It takes a minute for Frank to find his voice again, because seriously,  _ what the fuck. _ "Only Elena?"

"So far." Gerard shrugs. "I've been reading up on it as much as I can, but it doesn't seem to be very common. Or if it is, no one's talking about it. All I've managed to find out is that it has something to do with deep spiritual connections. Like, the more attached you are to the spirit you communicate with, the more the spirit tugs on you."

"Tugs you where?" As he speaks, Frank is also trying to recall everything he's eaten and drank here and whether or not he'd watched other people have the same thing. The odds are not looking great.

"Their plane of existence," Gerard says nonchalantly. Because, you know, just another day at the office.

"But you're still." Frank swallows. "You're still here. Your hand is still here. Right?"

Gerard nods. "It's like I'm straddling the line between life and death without really committing to either, if that makes sense? Like, parts of me vanish into the spiritual plane, but they still remain corporeal over here." Gerard's mouth twists and he slants his gaze away from Frank, looking a little pink. "I'm not explaining this very well."

"No, I'm catching on." Frank is surprised by his own need to reassure Gerard. "I mean, you're probably not used to talking about it. I'd bet it doesn't come up in conversation a lot."

That gets a little smile out of Gerard. He glances back down to check on his hand again, and Frank's eyes follow. It's got shape and color now, but it's still translucent, like looking into murky water. "Holy shit."

"Told you," Gerard says, but his tone is more mollified than smug. It occurs to Frank for the first time that having his hand vanish was maybe a little freaky for Gerard too. "Want to see if your parents are here?"

Frank has about a million more questions and a list of doubts longer than his arm, but he nods anyway, quietly grateful to put Gerard's disappearing act in the back of his mind.

Gerard leads him over to the chairs and they sit like usual. Frank hesitates before reaching over the table for Gerard, but by now the ghostly look is gone and it's impossible to tell that his hand had disappeared in the first place. It's not like uncontrollable vanishing is contagious. Or  _ real, _ Jesus. Gerard catches his eye and raises a brow like he can tell exactly what Frank is thinking. Frank flushes and grabs his hands, feeling sheepish for having held back in the first place.

Gerard immediately frowns. He mutters something under his breath that Frank doesn't catch before saying, "Damnit, where are they?"

"My parents are still gone?" Frank isn't really sure what that status equates to. Are they unwilling to talk? Or did they simply fade away into nonexistence?

When he voices those questions to Gerard, he gets an uneasy smile in return. "I'm sorry, Frank."

Frank grits his teeth. "Because?"

"I can't find them."

"I thought their spirits followed me." Frank shouldn't be this upset about this, he really shouldn't, but his stomach twists and he can't meet Gerard's eyes. It's like losing them all over again, totaled car not included. It'd been reckless to come here, to accidentally feed into hope only to have it yanked away once more.

"Things can change," Gerard says, sounding as crushed as Frank feels. That's hardly fair, Frank thinks — they're not  _ Gerard's _ parents.

"Do you think—" Frank clears his throat and looks up at the ceiling. "Are they in heaven?"

Gerard tilts his head. "Do you believe in heaven?"

"No."

"Me neither," Gerard concedes. "But, who knows. Maybe they are."

"Then they're probably better off than they were talking to us." Optimism tastes bitter on Frank's tongue. He doesn't believe a damn word of it, but maybe if he can convince Gerard, he can convince himself.

Gerard frowns. "I don't know if it's an either/or scenario. Heaven and the spiritual plane could coexist."

Rubbing the heel of his hand into his eye, Frank says, "Not helpful, dude."

"Shit, sorry." Gerard squeezes the hand that he's still holding, running his thumb across the tendon in Frank's wrist and down the lines of his palm. Frank doesn't say anything, but he's quietly thankful for the touch. It's grounding, like at least one thing in the world is right-side-up. "We'll find them, okay? They're your parents. They wouldn't just leave you."

Frank bites his tongue to keep from mentioning how they  _ already had, _ because Gerard's eyes are so earnest that he can't stand to shatter them. "Okay," he says instead. "We'll keep trying."

*

They do. Over the next few days, they alternate between mornings, afternoons, and evenings at Gerard's table, as if searching for Frank's parents' spirits at different times of day will catch them off guard and force them to reveal themselves. Frank suspects that Gerard is also juggling other clients, but every time they're sat together, Gerard gives Frank his undivided attention. After so many fruitless trials, Frank would expect his patience to have worn thin, but it doesn't seem to shake Gerard. Frank wishes he could say the same about himself.

He wakes up in Gerard's bed again and makes them both coffee — the hotel had been acting up again, and even though supernatural activity isn't real, Frank had still wanted to get some damn  _ sleep _ . Plus, Gerard always looks happy to see him when he shows up on the doorstep like a stray dog, so Frank sees no reason to feel guilty about it. It's peaceful here, and falling asleep to the quiet murmurings of Gerard talking to thin air is almost as good as the familiar rumble of Jersey traffic.

Gerard hums a thank you and accepts the mug, inhaling deeply before taking a sip. They lean against the counter together and silently caffeinate. Eventually, Gerard puts down his mug and wraps his hands over where Frank is cradling his own beverage. Frank raises a bemused brow but doesn't question it as Gerard's eyelids slide shut.

After a moment, he groans. "Nope. Still not here."

"They weren't even this annoying when I was a teenager," Frank says, vexed. Then it hits him in a wave of guilt how fucking stupid he'd been back then to not appreciate what he had; he shouldn't have argued about dying his hair, or scratching the car, or retaliated by plugging in his amp after midnight. Because now he can't apologize.

So wrapped up in his thoughts, it takes Frank a minute to realize that Gerard's hands are still spread on top of his. He looks down at them and Gerard immediately retracts, fingers twitching like they don't know what to do now. "Sorry.”

Frank can't tell if he's apologizing for yet another unsuccessful expedition into the spiritual plane or the touchy-feeliness, but either way, "Don't be."

Gerard turns away and carries his mug to the sink, and Frank watches as his shoulders tense and relax. "I was reading last night," he says. "I found something that might be helpful, since our blind persistence obviously isn't working out."

"Yeah?" Frank asks, ignoring the way that his stomach flutters hopefully.

"Do you know how Spiritualism was founded?" He looks over his shoulder at Frank.

"Is there a SparkNotes version?"

Gerard rolls his eyes. "Fine, but you're missing out. Basically, there were three sisters — Kate, Leah, and Margaret — who grew up in Hydesville, New York."

"I don't know where that is," Frank interrupts.

"Probably because it doesn't exist anymore," Gerard explains. "It's near Rochester. Anyway, the house they lived in was haunted, and the Fox sisters devised a way to communicate with the spirit by asking questions and having him rap on the table and walls to answer."

"Was there actually a spirit in the house?" Frank asks skeptically. "Or were they just crazy?"

"Well, the sisters said that the spirit had been murdered in the house and buried in the cellar, and other people  _ did _ find bones there." Gerard pauses, and his face darkens. "Of course, Harry Houdini spent years trying to discredit them and claimed that they'd planted the bones themselves. But just because his act was fake doesn't mean everyone else's was."

"Huh," Frank says. "Okay, that was marginally more interesting than I expected."

"Yeah?" Gerard looks almost shy.

Frank nods. "Are you going to tell me what three sisters and a dead dude have to do with my parents, though?"

"They're all dead now, actually." Gerard scratches the back of his neck. "It's kind of a long shot, but I thought that if we could communicate with the Fox sisters, they could point us in the right direction. They're kind of the experts."

Frank takes the final sip of his coffee, now lukewarm, and sets it down. "Do you know where the sisters are?"

"I couldn't find an official report," Gerard says. "But if I had to guess, they'd probably be with that table. The one they used to communicate with spirits. After the first guy, it became a symbol for them."

"I thought spirits attached to people."

Gerard grimaces. "The Fox sisters died broke and disgraced, Frank. I don't think they had a lot of options available."

"So spirits can attach to objects, then." Frank knows he sounds like a lunatic. Jesus, Brian would be so proud. "Do you think — maybe my parents did that too?"

"I don't know." Gerard worries his bottom lip between his teeth. "I mean, it's obviously possible, but it's hard to see why they would when you're right here."

Frank runs a hand over his face. "This is confusing as fuck, dude. I'm a  _ bartender. _ This is way out of my league."

"Hey, no. You're smart." Gerard takes a step closer, fingertips brushing against Frank's. "And if it's any consolation, this is out of my league too."

Frank snorts. "Are you kidding? You read, like, an entire book each night. You're the Einstein of mediumship."

Maybe it's Frank's imagination, but Gerard's cheeks look a little pink. "The font's big."

"Uh huh." Frank smiles. "You don't have to be modest, Gee. I know you're brilliant."

Okay, that's definitely a blush. "Gee?"

"Yeah, do you mind?"

"No, it's fine." Gerard cuts him a sideways glance. "Frankie."

Frank laughs. "Oh, so that's how it is."

"You started it!" Gerard claims, eyes wide. "Whatever. I think it's cute."

"Cute," Frank repeats, stifling another round of laughter. Gerard's face is approximately the same shade as a firetruck by now. "Sure, yeah. I'll take it." Just to see what'll happen, Frank pokes his lip ring with his tongue. Gerard's eyes follow. Interesting.

"Shut up," Gerard says, abashed. "Fuck, now I can't remember what we were talking about. Stop laughing at me!"

Frank picks up his empty mug again just so he has something to hide his smile behind. He's pretty sure that Gerard sees right through it, though. "You were telling me about a magic table?"

"Not magic," Gerard says automatically. "But, uh, yeah. If their spirits are near it, we can probably get some answers."

"Is the table in Lily Dale?"

"No, the Rochester Historical Society has it." Gerard makes a face. "We asked them for it, but they refused to hand it over. Since apparently the oldest Spiritualist community in America isn't good enough for them."

"Oh," Frank says, frowning. "Can we go? Or are you, like, sworn against ever setting foot inside of the building for fear of betraying the Assembly?"

"I don't think they can legally stop us during visiting hours," Gerard says after giving it a moment of thought, Frank's sarcasm flying right over his head. "Do you have a car?"

Frank almost snorts, because if he had a car here, does Gerard seriously think he'd still be around? But one look at Gerard's face makes the words die on Frank's tongue. "Uh, no."

"Me neither. Shit." Gerard glances around the room. "Guess I've got to call Mikey." Frank quirks an eyebrow, and Gerard adds, "My brother."

"Cool," Frank says. "Road trip."

*

Mikey apparently can't abandon his job and responsibilities to come be their personal chauffeur until the weekend, so Gerard and Frank are stuck waiting around for three days. For the most part, Frank tries to stay out of Gerard's way — he knows that he has other clients to read and a schedule to uphold. Still, it's fucking lonely. The television in the hotel's lobby only gets three channels, and Frank is never going back to explore those woods, not even in the daylight. He calls Brian just to check in and assure him that he's still alive, but there's not very much he can say without admitting that Brian was right or bringing up how his parents are ditching him, even in the afterlife. After they hang up, there's nothing left to do other than stare at the wall.

That's why, once night falls, he ends up quietly pushing open Gerard's front door. "You home?"

"Frankie, hey." Gerard is on the couch with his legs tucked underneath him, half a dozen books lying abandoned on the other end. He picks them up three at a time and moves them to the floor, patting the spot next to him. "Haunted Mansion acting up?"

Frank thinks back to his barren hotel room. It had been quiet for the first time in a while, the echoing footsteps and rustling drapes more of a minor nuisance than a reason to hide under the covers. He fakes a look of exasperation. "Yeah. You know how it is."

Gerard nods and reaches over to pat Frank's knee companionably. His pajama pants have the Batman logo on them this time, Frank notices. "Want anything to drink?"

Frank allows himself to be hopeful for half a second. "Got anything stronger than coffee?"

At least Gerard has the decency to look remorseful. "Still a dry county."

"Damn. Worth a shot."

Gerard wanders off to brew a pot. To entertain himself, Frank picks up a book from the floor and begins to rifle through, catching the odd word but mostly looking at the drawings. He glances up at Gerard when he comes back in with two mugs a few minutes later, accepting one and taking a scalding sip. "These picture books suck. I can't even tell what's going on." He wrinkles his nose and sticks his tongue out. "Is this decaf?"

"Yes," Gerard says, sounding pained. "It's no picnic for me either, trust me. But Elena says that I have to stop staying up all night so I won't fall asleep on her. Also, they're not picture books."

"So now I must suffer too," Frank intones grimly, taking another sip anyway. "And, okay. We can pretend that something with full-page illustrations isn't a picture book. What is it, then? Twilight?" Gerard frowns at him. "Fine, sorry. The Spiritualist bible?"

"Actually, Spiritualism doesn't have a sacred text all to itself," Gerard says, promptly forgetting that he's supposed to be annoyed with Frank. "Although, to some extent, our practices do come up from time to time in the Christian Bible."

"Really?" Frank shifts on the couch, settling in. If he knows one thing about Gerard, it's that the guy can  _ talk. _ "I was raised Catholic for a little while, but I don't remember any of that shit."

Gerard shrugs. "I guess you have to know where to look. There are signs of it when Saul, the king of Israel, visits this girl in Endor — who's supposed to be a witch? — and the dead prophet Samuel stops by. And the story of the Transfiguration, when Moses and Elijah appeared to three of Jesus' Apostles, I'm pretty sure." He tugs on a strand of his hair, deep in thought. "I guess it doesn't really matter, though, since both the Catholic and Protestant churches think we're full of shit."

"Why the hell do they get to weigh in?" Frank pauses. "Honestly, at this point, I've witnessed more proof of the existence of spirits than I ever have of God."

Gerard looks like he might agree, but he doesn't say it. "I don't know, it could be worse. We've been denounced and stuff, sure, but at least it's not the Middle Ages. They thought mediums were possessed by devils back then."

Frank lifts an eyebrow. "You mean to tell me that you're not?"

Gerard smacks him. "Smartass. Don't you think you'd have noticed by now if I had, like, fangs?"

"That would make you a vampire, not a demon."

Gerard rolls his eyes. "Same difference."

"Not really," Frank says, barely holding back a smirk. Lowly, he continues, "Because if you were a vampire, I'd let you bite me." It barely even makes sense, but it's  _ totally _ worth it for the way Gerard's face flames red.

"Masochist," Gerard accuses weakly, making very intense eye contact with the wall.

"Mhm," Frank hums, propping an arm up on the back of the couch. "Tell me more about your books, Dracula."

"Um." Gerard hesitates before bending down to grab a pale yellow hardcover. He stares at it in his lap for a second before clearing this throat and flipping it open. "This one's a compilation of interviews of people with terminal illnesses. It's technically marketed towards doctors, but my field of work overlaps some, I guess."

Frank looks at him. "You're a morbid freak."

"Hey!" Gerard acts offended until Frank cracks a smile. Then he blushes instead. "Shut up, asshole. Once you get past the part where it's about a bunch of dying people, it's actually very insightful. A lot of it is based on the exploration of how extreme circumstances can create complex, seemingly incompatible situations in the human spirit — like how someone can be in both acceptance and denial, or angry and calm, if that makes sense. That idea struck a chord with me."

"Yeah? How come?"

"Um. I think — I don't know." Gerard eyes him cautiously. "When you work with a lot of clients, you start to notice patterns. A lot of people only end up in Lily Dale because they've got a paradox like that inside of them."

Though Gerard doesn't say Frank's name, he can read between the fucking lines. Frank knows what contradictions lie in his mind. He can feel them grinding past each other like tectonic plates, crushing defeat and reckless hope tearing him different directions and leaving an earthquake in their wake.

Frank decides he should table that train of thought for another time, one in which he has access to vodka. "Do you have a paradox?"

"Everyone does, I think," Gerard replies through a twisted mouth, carefully avoiding the question. Frank wants to push, but he knows better. Not now.

Instead, he points to a complicated diagram blended in with some text and lets Gerard have his way. "Tell me what this is?"

*

Frank is curled up on Gerard’s bed, just on the edge of sleep, when he hears the crash.

Immediately, he’s bolt upright; his apartment had been robbed once, years ago, and he’d beaten himself up for months for just assuming the bump in the night was the wind. He grabs the most threatening thing in Gerard’s room — which just so happens to be the lamp — and tip-toes out into the hall.

The main room is dark save for a few candles, so Frank runs his hand up and down the wall until he finds the switch that illuminates the way. The bulbs don’t stretch quite far enough for him to pick up anything in the front room. Frank is considering just writing it off and crawling back into bed when Gerard says, “Frank?”

Relief flushes through him. “Oh, Gee, it’s just you.”

“Yeah, it’s just me. Shit, did I wake you up?” He pauses. “Uh, why are you holding my lamp?”

“I heard a crash.” Frank averts his gaze to the wall beside him, suddenly sheepish. He can see the lamp’s grey electrical cord trailing behind him in his peripheral vision. He sets it down carefully. “I thought something bad had happened. But if it’s just you, then — then we’re good.”

“Well.” Gerard takes in a deep breath. “Not entirely.”

The rest of the overhead lights flick on, and Frank’s gaze lands on Gerard standing by the switch. With one arm.

“Shit,” Frank says, letting his body weight sag against the wall. “Yeah, this is never going to get less weird.”

“I was just talking to Elena,” Gerard explains hurriedly. “Like I do every night.”

“And then…?” 

“I wasn’t doing anything different than normal. But then the whole thing just disappeared.”

“All the way up to the shoulder, damn.” Frank takes a step forward and almost reaches out to touch before stopping himself. It had been unsettling enough the first time. “It’ll come back though, right? It always does.”

Something deeply disquieted settles behind Gerard’s eyes. “It’s been two hours.”

“Oh,” Frank says softly, not too sure how to follow up on that news. He has no idea how long Gerard’s hand had been invisible the last time he’d walked in on this phenomenon, but regardless, two hours seems like…a long time. Too long of a time. His gaze drops to the floor, and he notices a thick book lying face-down by Gerard’s feet for the first time. He points. “Was that—?”

“I dropped it on accident. My hand isn’t as stable as it usually is. I’m not sure if the book phased right through it, or if my grip was just weak, or — I’m sorry it was so loud.”

“No, it’s okay.” Frank reaches down and retrieves the bulky hardcover, because Gerard looks too freaked to do anything about it for himself. He sets it on the table beside them. “I think it’s probably better that I’m awake for, um…this.”

“For my up-close-and-personal freakshow?” He heaves a sigh. “I’m sorry. I wish I had more control.”

“Hey.” Frank waits for Gerard to meet his eyes. “It always comes back, you said so yourself. It’s probably just taking longer to reform because it’s a whole arm instead of a hand. Stressing out about it won’t help anything.”

“What else am I supposed to do? You try sitting around with half of the amount of arms you usually have. You’d probably be a little stressed too.”

“Maybe,” Frank concedes. “But you don’t have to wait alone. I’ll stay out here with you until it reappears.” 

“Frank—” Gerard starts immediately, but Frank shuts him up with one look.

“I want to,” he insists, even though the headache brewing beneath his temples is telling him what he really wants is to go back to bed. He can deal. It’s the least he can do after all the help he’s received.

They settle in on the couch together, close enough to feel each others’ warmth. Frank finds himself succumbing to long, slow blinks as he struggles to stay awake. It must be at least another hour before the first tendrils of color begin to take shape in the air. At first, Frank is sure it’s just his exhausted brain deluding him, but then Gerard sees it too.

“I told you it would be fine,” Frank says as Gerard flexes his newly-visible index finger, punctuating the sentence with a yawn. He looks up at Gerard through his eyelashes, smiling softly at the pure amazement on Gerard’s face as he watches his palm reconstruct. “You should listen to me more,” Frank tells him, and Gerard nestles in a little closer to his side.

He wakes up with his head on Gerard’s shoulder.

*

Mikey's handshake is firm and somewhat intimidating, though Frank doesn't think that's intentional. He's taller, more so than Gerard, which Frank is not a fan of — compared to one other person, it doesn't matter if Frank's tiny, but when he's the shortest one in the room, it's downright unfair.

"Frank, right? Gee's told me about you."

Unbidden, a smirk twitches on Frank's lips. "Has he now?"

"I talk about  _ all _ of my clients," Gerard cuts in, nailing Mikey with a look of betrayal. "You tell me about your job. It's only fair."

"Right," is all Mikey says, but his expression speaks volumes. That kicks Frank's smirk up another notch. Gerard catches sight of it as he glances back and forth between them, eyebrows creasing like it's only just occurred to him what a terrible idea it was to let his brother meet Frank.

In the car, Frank takes the backseat both literally and figuratively so Mikey can catch Gerard up on what he's missed at home in the past month, like the new restaurant that's gone in downtown and all of the weird things their parents do now that they don't have kids at home. It catches Frank off-guard to hear Mikey bring up their parents to Gerard so flippantly; he'd been under the impression that unless Gerard decided to introduce the topic, it was taboo. But Gerard doesn't have any bitter remarks at their expense. Whatever grudges held between them, Frank realizes, must only be one-sided.

Gerard also fills Mikey in on why they're making this trek in the first place; he's extremely detailed regarding some parts of the story but vague in others, which Frank appreciates. Mikey seems like a decent dude, but he really doesn't need to know about how Frank's parents died or that time Frank accidentally-on-purpose broke into Gerard's house in the blind pursuit of booze. After hearing the whole explanation, Mikey doesn't seem the slightest bit perturbed. Apparently both of the Way brothers are immune to the supernatural insanity going on around them.

A couple of hours later, Mikey pulls up in front of a run-down building obscured by a neighboring tree's low-lying branches. Its white paint has faded into cream and the building is sandwiched between two similar looking structures — all in all, it really isn't that different from Lily Dale, discounting the fact that modern cars are parallel parked in front of and behind them. "We're here," Mikey intones flatly.

Frank is underwhelmed, to say the least. He tries to catch Gerard's eye, but Gerard is too fixated on Mikey to notice. "There's probably going to be a member of the Historical Society keeping an eye on things in there," he tells his brother. "Do you think you can handle it?"

"Jesus, Gee, we're not in a Bond movie." Mikey flips his sun visor down and slides back the mirror cover, running his fingers through his hair and messing it up in a way that is, Frank won't lie, kind of hot. "Yes, I can handle it."

"Good." Gerard's mouth is set in a determined line. "Frank? You and I will go find the table and try to tap into any spiritual energy. We'll have to be quick."

Mikey rolls his eyes so hard that Frank is surprised they don't get stuck like that. "You're taking this way too seriously."

Gerard studiously ignores him, focusing on Frank until he gives a nod of affirmation. Frank is kind of with Mikey on this one; if Gerard thinks that waltzing into a small-town Historical Society is some sort of covert operation, he obviously doesn't get out enough.

The door is shut, but a sign on the front tells them that the Historical Society is open. Gerard takes one last look at each of them as he reaches for the door handle, telling Mikey at the last second, "Unbutton one more on your shirt."

Shrugging, Mikey does as he's told, nimble fingers undoing the plaid flannel further down his chest. Satisfied, Gerard pushes forward. A bell chimes overhead in conjunction with the squeaky door.

"Welcome!" A girl with dark hair wearing a sundress perks up from behind a desk, the sudden movement sending a couple of pamphlets skittering across the surface. She hurries to collect them and return them to their respective stacks. "Can I help you find anything?"

Gerard and Mikey exchange a look that Frank can't read before Mikey steps forward confidently and says, "My friends and I just wanted to poke around. We're from out of town, so maybe you could tell me the best place to…"

And Frank doesn't get to hear the rest of it, because Gerard grabs him by the arm and wrenches him past a case full of old gears and towards the back of the building. It's only a few moments until Gerard spots what they're looking for and comes to an abrupt halt, Frank almost crashing into him. Next to another display case showing off yellowing handwritten letters is a wooden table, simple in design but gleaming. On top of it is a paper tent that clearly states DO NOT TOUCH. Gerard looks like he's seen God.

"So, that's the Fox sisters' table?" Frank asks unnecessarily.

"It is," Gerard says, reverent in a way that only he could manage whilst gazing at a piece of furniture.

"Then, uh." Frank hesitates, trying not to be a dick about it, but wasn't Gerard the one to say they're on a time-crunch here? "Isn't this the part where your eyes roll back into your head and you tell my fortune?"

"Oh, fuck off." Gerard reaches for Frank's hands. Frank meets him halfway. In a smaller voice, he asks, "That was a joke, right? My eyes don't actually do that?"

"Just shut up and tell me why my parents are MIA."

Gerard squeezes his hands, and his eyes slide shut.

"Kate, Margaret, Leah, if you're here, I'm reaching out to you." Gerard's voice is barely more than a whisper, and it makes Frank wonder if he's supposed to be listening at all. Next to them, something raps against the tabletop. Frank nearly jumps out of his skin. Distinct noises like that don't just happen — but no one is  _ there. _

"That's how they communicated with spirits, by asking them to knock on their table," Gerard says slightly louder and presumably for Frank's benefit. "Okay, knock once to answer yes. Twice for no. Am I speaking to the Fox sisters?"

One thump echoes around the room, and goosebumps break out on Frank's arms before he can talk himself out of how ridiculous this is. They're playing twenty questions with  _ ghosts, _ for fuck's sake.

After hearing that answer, Gerard, of course, turns a bit shy. "I, ah — I'd like to thank you for showing up. I have great respect for what the three of you pioneered." Frank clears his throat, and the high points of Gerard's face flush. "But anyway. Right. I have a friend here who's having trouble finding spirits he knows, and your assistance would be invaluable. Have things like this happened before?"

One knock.

"Oh. Good." Gerard chews on his lip. "It's really hard to phrase these into yes or no questions, damnit. Okay — is it my fault?"

Two knocks.

"Can you feel any spiritual presence around my friend? It should be one man and one woman, middle-aged and both with dark hair."

Two knocks. Frank's stomach twists.

"Is it possible that they have left the spiritual plane?"

Two knocks.

"Then where can we find them?" Gerard shakes his head and grumbles, "Fuck, that's not a yes or no question. How am I supposed to phrase that? Wait, that's not my question either, sisters, one moment."

"Are they in Lily Dale?" Frank suggests warily. Gerard's eyebrows shoot halfway up his forehead — which looks ridiculous, seeing as how his eyes are still closed — and he nods enthusiastically, repeating the question in the direction of the table.

Two knocks.

"Are they in New York?"

Two knocks.

Gerard's face pinches. "I mean no disrespect, sisters, but do you even know whose spirits we're asking about?"

One knock.

"New Jersey," Frank says. "Ask about Jersey."

Gerard does. One knock.

"Oh my god," Gerard wonders aloud. "Jersey. Where in Jersey could they possibly have—" His face falls.

"What?" Frank's fingers twitch against Gerard's wrist.

"I—" He cuts himself off, sounding almost apologetic as he inquires, "Are they at their gravestones, sisters?"

One knock.

"Shit," Frank curses. "I swore up and down that I'd never go back there."

"Go where?" Mikey asks, appearing suddenly from behind a pile of historical junk. "Am I driving again?"

Gerard's eyes snap open. "Why aren't you at the front?"

"About that." Mikey shifts on his feet. "Uh, turns out she's a lesbian, and it was pretty hard to go back to discussing the history of Rochester after dropping that bomb."

"Of course." Gerard groans and runs a hand over his face. "Well, thanks for trying. At least you don't have to buy her dinner now."

Distantly, Frank hears high heels click against the wood floor.

"Another thing," Mikey amends. "We could totally hear what you two were doing, and she's probably coming back here to chop your hand off for touching the table."

"I didn't touch it!" Gerard defends, but the footsteps don't cease. If anything, they accelerate. "Okay, yeah, um. We should probably go."

Frank's eyes widen urgently. "Don't we need to find out why my parents left? You know, while we're still here?"

"We can ask them ourselves." Gerard's grip is like a vise on Frank's arm, keeping him close as they navigate their way further into the cluster of Rochester memorabilia — seriously, this place is run by  _ hoarders. _ Frank desperately wants to hang back, to cling to the first source of real answers he's gotten in forever, but Gerard continues to string him along until they reach what appears to be a back door.

"How'd you know this was here?" Gerard raises his eyebrows at Mikey as he unlatches the sliding lock and yanks it open.

"I didn't." Mikey shrugs. "Just figured if we followed the maze long enough, something would show up." If only some of that stupid luck would rub off on Frank.

Once the engine is running and they're far enough from the Historical Society to shake off the feeling of someone breathing down their necks, Mikey turns to Gerard. "Seriously, though. Where are we going?"

"Jersey," Gerard says without so much as a glance back at Frank. Not that Frank is watching.

Mikey throws a tiny grin over to the passenger seat as he gets them up to the speed limit. "About time you came home, Gee."

*

Flowers lay at the base of Frank's parents' gravestones. They're lilies, stems still green and petals barely browned. Frank squints at them, wondering who could have possibly placed a bouquet here so recently. His aunt lives more than an hour away, and she would have called him if she was in town. Maybe it was some far-off relative that hadn't bothered to show up to the funeral.

The granite is still as smooth and beautiful as it was the day he buried them, and that strikes Frank as wrong; they’re only nearing a month since the accident, but it feels like an eternity has passed. The headstone should be cracked and littered with cobwebs, the names faded by time and wandering fingertips. As it is, the engravings read clear and unweathered: FRANK RUSSO and LINDA RUSSO.

The gravestones are closer to each other than any others in the cemetery, something Frank hadn't noticed before. His mind unhelpfully conjures up an image of his parents underground together, hands linked in the soil. In love even after death. Frank's heart twists so hard it hurts. Blinking rapidly, he turns to Gerard. "Let's get this over with."

Nodding slowly, Gerard takes Frank's hands and closes his eyes. His already sad expression immediately melts into utter despair. Frank tenses from head to toe, a question on the tip of his tongue, but the words are crushed out of him as Gerard drops his hands and pulls him in for a tight hug.

"What?" Frank finally gets out after a second, his face shoved into the crook of Gerard's neck. "Gee?"

Gerard mumbles something against the crown of Frank's head that's too low for Frank to catch. He wrenches back, hands on Gerard's shoulders. "Gerard,  _ what?" _

"I'm sorry," Gerard whispers, glancing over to a grim Mikey. Frank really, really hates being out of the loop. He shakes Gerard a little, trying to get him to talk. "They're not — they're not here. I'm sorry."

"But the table said—" Frank's head throbs. His vision is blurry, though he's not sure when his eyes had started to mist over. "They said—"

"I know, Frankie. I'm sorry."

"So that's it?" Frank takes a step back, his expression shutting down. This is it. Finally, the part where the wizard pulls back the curtain, and Frank has to go home even worse off than he'd been when he was puking in his landlord's rose bush. Because now he's felt hope. And now he's lost hope. "You can't see anything? We drove this whole fucking way for  _ nothing?" _

"I didn't say it's nothing, it's just that—" Gerard tries to reach for him but Frank steps out of range. The urge to flee hits Frank like a steamroller, and he's shaking, he realizes belatedly. "—there are a lot of spirits here, and it can be overwhelming, but just because your parents aren't here doesn't mean we wasted our time—"

"Jesus fucking Christ, Gerard, not all of us get our kicks chatting with dead people. If my parents are gone, I have no reason to  _ be _ here."

"Hey." Mikey steps forward, continuing in a clear don't-fuck-with-me voice, "What he's trying to say is that he's picking up something else. Have some patience."

Frank looks back and forth between the brothers, wondering how Mikey got all of that from Gerard's mumblings. "Is that true?" he asks Gerard, who is staring off into the expanse of the cemetery. It's a nice location, as far as places full of dead people go, with an old oak tree up on a hill. Gerard doesn't acknowledge Frank for a solid minute. When he turns back, his eyes look duller, drained.

"At your parents' funeral. Was it an open or closed casket?"

Frank gawks at him, horrified. "Jesus, man. They were mangled up in the worst car crash of the year, what do you think?"

"I think the issue isn't that their spirits have abandoned their gravesite," Gerard says. "They wouldn't have done that, because there aren't very many other places they could go. Spirits attach to loved ones, prized possessions, or their old bodies, in my experience."

"Are you saying that they've moved onto another relative?"

"No." Gerard shakes his head slowly. "Your parents — from everything I've witnessed, they go through a lot of trouble to not be found. I don't believe that they're buried here at all."

Seriously, what the fuck. What the  _ fuck. _ "You're kidding."

"You never saw the bodies," Mikey points out annoyingly. "Said it yourself."

"Not at the funeral, maybe, but I saw them get  _ hauled out _ of their totaled car!"

"Listen to me." Gerard grabs him by both forearms and doesn't budge when Frank tries to shake him off, forcing Frank to a halt. When had he started pacing? He looks up at Gerard, and a deep breath escapes unconsciously. It's probably due to the whole magic-man thing he's got going on, but Frank has always found ease in Gerard's eyes. "The place I described to you the first time we sat down together. Grass. Purple irises. Remember? I still see it every time I touch you. But here, for some reason, it's — it's stronger."

Frank's heart skips a beat.

"A peeling picket fence. A tire swing under a big tree, right next to, to — those are the irises, and — a back door with a broken lock. Tell me that means something to you, Frank, please."

It hits Frank between the temples so suddenly that he's dizzy with it. The lock. When he was in fifth grade, someone had broken in through the back door and they'd never gotten around to fixing it; his dad had just bought them a dog. The tire swing where he'd kissed a boy for the first time in middle school and realized that wow, maybe that was a whole lot cooler than getting cooties. Purple irises. His mother had grown them every spring, because they were her favorite. Frank used to put them in a vase each year for his parents' anniversary. His mother had held a bouquet of them at their wedding.

"That's my backyard." Frank's voice cracks. "That's my childhood backyard."

Gerard is holding Frank like he's something fragile, like he'll break apart and scatter in the wind if he isn't careful. "Have you been back there? You know, since…"

Frank shakes his head.

"It's up to you," Gerard says, quiet enough for only Frank to hear. "If you want to stop right here, we can. It's your decision."

Whatever this is, Frank thinks, it's bigger than he could have ever imagined. Every time he tries to wire together his reality and the idea that his parents aren't in the caskets he'd seen buried, the circuit in his brain sparks and shorts out. It just doesn't make sense. Who could have pulled off a stunt like that? And, fuck,  _ why? _

Gerard's still whispering to him, indistinct words that Frank can't process, but Frank cuts him off by bunching up the front of his shirt and forcing their gazes to lock. With a hushed intensity that Frank didn't even know he had in himself, he says, "I think we have to. We have to go."

Gerard meets his eyes steadily. "You don't have to do anything, Frankie."

"Yes, I do." Frank takes a step back and looks to Mikey, nodding. "This — this isn't the sort of thing that I can walk away from. I have to know."

Mikey agrees first, plucking his car keys out of his pocket and dangling them in the air. By the time Frank's gaze makes its back over to Gerard, his expression is still troubled and uncertain, but Frank can see the exact moment when he relents. He says, "If you're sure."

Frank's sure.

*

The ride there consists of tense silences and radio fuzz as Mikey messes with the dials in an attempt to find a good station. Frank knows that they play classic rock on 87.9, but he's too lost in his own head to relay that information.

The outside of his childhood home looks just as it had a month ago, except the driveway is empty instead of flooded with police cars. All sorts of people in suits have been telling him since the accident that he needs to come empty the place out and put it on the market. He'd ignored each and every call, always claiming that he wasn't ready to go back and face those ghosts. At the time, he'd used the expression figuratively, but now…

Mikey pulls into the driveway and cuts the engine. He and Gerard are both casting Frank identically harrowed expressions. Their eyebrows are knit in the exact same way, it's kind of freaky. "I'll stay here. Keep an eye on things," Mikey says.

Gerard bites his lip. "We don't have to do this."

Frank swallows down the lump in his throat and pushes his door open.

He knows that the gate to the backyard will still be padlocked, so he heads for the front door instead. If they can get to the other side of the house, the back door will put them right where they need to be. Maybe Frank can close his eyes and convince Gerard to lead him there.

"I don't have mine on me, but we used to keep a spare key around here," Frank says, mostly to himself, as Gerard joins him on the front porch. "Under the green flower pot, I think? Unless they moved it."

Metal clicks, and Frank's head snaps up. "It's already open," Gerard says with his hand on the doorknob.

"That's — weird," Frank settles on. He cocks his head towards the ajar door. "Uh. Be my guest."

Gerard takes pity on him and walks in first, blundering around in unfamiliar territory. "Frank? Where are the lights in this place?"

Steeling himself, Frank steps through the door and finds the correct spot on the wall with practiced ease. The switch lies obscured in shadow, not quite visible in the limited window light, but once Frank hits it the entire room flickers into pale illumination.

The breath that Frank had been trying to take freezes and sticks to the inside of his throat. He tries again and ends up coughing.

"You grew up here?" Gerard questions warily.

The place is absolutely ransacked — television gone, tables turned on their sides, the couch shoved back against the wall with a path of scraped wooden floor in its wake. His father's armchair looks like it'd lost a fight with a bear.

Frank's feet take him into the kitchen before he can hold them back, and the damage there is even worse. Glasses shattered on the floor. His mom's nice china in a splintered heap. The microwave gone and the fridge empty, like a very violent Grinch decided to steal Christmas.

"Maybe the bank came by," Frank thinks aloud, not sure who he's trying to convince. "I've been stalling instead of putting the house up for sale, and maybe they got fed up."

"That doesn't sound very legal to me." There are footsteps, and then Gerard is in the kitchen with him. "Jesus," he whispers in horrified awe.

"Let's just—" Frank tries to walk forward but trips over his own feet, stumbling until Gerard steadies him with a hand on his waist. "Let's find what we need and go."

Gerard's eyes flick around Frank's face like he's searching for something. "Okay," he says finally. "You lead the way, then."

Frank would rather take a stroll through hell, probably, but he decides to keep that to himself. The sooner they get to the backyard, the sooner they can get the fuck out of here. Forcing one foot in front of the other, he shows Gerard to the back door, carefully averting his eyes from the scenes of wreckage.

Because of the broken lock, all he has to do is nudge it open. Gerard gets one foot across the threshold before almost falling over.

"Woah, woah." Frank rushes to steady him, but Gerard is already upright again, albeit sagging against the doorframe. He takes a deep, shuddering breath. "They're here," he says, voice straining. "And they're  _ strong." _

A jolt of electricity runs through Frank, but he can't tell if it's from relief or fear. "Can you walk?"

"Yeah," Gerard says after a second. "Yeah, it just took me by surprise. We're not even — god, we're not even touching."

"Should we be?"

"Maybe." Gerard's eyelids flutter. "Here, first let's find — do you know where they're buried?"

Frank shakes his head. "As far as I was aware, the cemetery."

"That's okay." Gerard's voice is distant, even though he's right there in front of Frank. "I can—" He drifts forward, as ghostly a human Frank has ever seen, until he's standing under the tree where the tire swing used to be. Its canopy casts vast, shifting shadows on the ground, and the sight is so achingly nostalgic that Frank’s chest hurts.

Gerard blinks a few times and his lips part, like he hadn't really noticed what he was doing until just then. And, oh god, Frank thinks, if his parents are under there and they're going to have to  _ dig them up _ or something, Frank is going to puke, one hundred percent—

"Have these stones always been here?" Gerard asks, cutting through his thoughts. He steps to the side and Frank edges closer until he can see them — grey, small enough to fit in the palm of his hand, yet incredibly smooth. Engraved.

FRANK IERO and LINDA IERO.

Seriously, Frank's going to puke.

"Those are the same names as on the gravestones," Gerard says. "Except…the last name, your last name—"

"Is Russo," Frank says, voice shaking. Then he notices that's not the only thing — tremors go through his hands, his knees, his very core.

Pity flashes in Gerard's eyes, and Frank feels rage flare up. He doesn't want pity. He wants to  _ leave. _ But his feet stick to the grass and he looks down at it, wondering when it had gotten so brown. "They say otherwise," Gerard mumbles.

Frank stares at the two stones side by side, eyes wide and disbelieving. "It's on my birth certificate!"

"They say it had to be." Gerard's eyes are squeezed shut, every line and angle of him tensed. Frank wonders if it hurts; the guy had nearly collapsed just walking out here. "They say they were — they were trying to protect you."

"Protect me?" Frank knows he's being too loud, but he's well past giving a shit about what the neighbors might overhear. "From what?"

"From—" Gerard's expression pinches, and he staggers slightly. "Good lord, your parents are strong-willed."

Frank huffs out air. "They had to be. I was their kid."

Gerard tries for a smile, but it quickly morphs into a grimace. "Something about — they're so panicked, it's hard to tell what they're — three hundred thousand dollars? What?"

Though he isn't sure who Gerard is talking to anymore, Frank echoes, "What?"

"They owe that to someone. The last name — your parents wanted their debt to die with them, Frank. It was supposed to make you untraceable."

"They wanted their debt to die with them," Frank repeats doubtfully. "You mean—"

Gerard nods solemnly, and the regret in his eyes is too much for Frank to bear. "A crash, but no accident."

All of the muscles in Frank's legs disintegrate and his knees buckle as he reaches out for the tree that's too far away to catch him. But faster than Frank can register, Gerard somehow gets there, holding him up and letting him sag against his chest. Frank at least has the dignity to be embarrassed about how often Gerard's been catching him in the past fifteen minutes.

"Jesus," Gerard says into his hair, breath warm and solid. "You're almost as pale as me." And Frank might have laughed, if he had any air left in his lungs.

"My parents. They—" His mind tries to reboot only to fizzle out again. Warm fingers stroke the side of his face and he leans into them unconsciously. "How could they —  _ three hundred thousand? _ How could that even happen? Fuck, are they still here?"

"Yes," Gerard admits hesitantly. "But all they're saying — it's the same thing over and over again. That they're sorry. That they miss you."

Frank realizes, then, that his cheeks are wet. "Cowards," he accuses the stones in the toughest sniffly voice he can manage. "You had no right to leave me. Didn't even call to say goodbye. You should have — we could have—" Frank can't get the words out, and now the front of Gerard's shirt is all damp, and it's just not  _ fair. _

Not too far away, tires squeal loud enough to make both of their heads snap up. Frank feels Gerard tense against him.

"What was—"

"I don't know," Frank answers, but Gerard is already running for the back door with a new urgency.  _ Mikey, _ Frank realizes. They'd left Mikey alone out there.

"Gerard!" Frank calls after him desperately. It could have just been some dumb teenagers, or a pizza delivery guy running late. But after finding out that everything from his last name to his parents' past was a lie, Frank isn't too sure that logic applies anymore. "Shit,  _ shit." _

He takes one last look at his mother's and father's real gravestones and thinks briefly of pocketing them, just to hold onto whatever truth he can find. There are still words stuck under his tongue, but he knows he'll never find them; he'd said it all at the funeral. And now — he isn't even sure who he'd be talking to.

In the end, he leaves them, heart pumping out of his ribcage as he darts after Gerard.

*

The car looks exactly as they had left it, until Frank walks close enough to notice that the driver's seat is now empty.

Frank squashes his first instinct, which is to curse uncontrollably. "Did you see anything?" he asks instead, voice still raw from crying. He rubs at his eyes, trying to erase the evidence.

Gerard doesn't answer. Instead, he reaches for the door handle and wrenches it open, staring at the vacant seat inside. Frank looks at Gerard's body's profile; he's so rigid that one touch could shatter him into a thousand pieces. He bends down and then straightens, staring at something in the palm of his hand.

"Gee." Frank tries to wedge himself between Gerard and the car, put some space between them, get that hollow look of off his face. "Hey. Did you see who it was? Which way they went? We can follow them. Or call the police. Or something. Gee?"

Silently, Gerard holds up the item in his hand for Frank to see. It's a matte black business card, and in the setting sun Frank can see a ten digit number embossed on it. Once Frank's eyes flick back up to Gerard's face, he flips the card to expose messy handwriting in metallic pen.

"Three hundred thousand dollars," Frank reads aloud, barely a whisper.

"Three days," Gerard finishes.

Ice spreads down Frank's spine. "We need to go.  _ Now." _

*

Frank drives, and at first, every little thing makes him jump; three weeks isn't long enough to forget how to operate a car, but it's certainly long enough to make him squeak after accidentally hitting the windshield wipers. During their awful hours together, Dr. Santos had reiterated a thousand times that it's normal for people to avoid driving after an accident affects someone they love. But Frank doesn't allow himself the option to be scared — because while he trusts Gerard, the guy is in absolutely no position to be behind the wheel. He's completely spaced out, gaze locked on a speck on the front windshield. The quietness isn't helping Frank’s nerves. He finds himself itching to fill it.

"This is all my fucking fault."

"What?" Gerard's eyes snap over to him, fucking finally, and Frank's heart squeezes. "No. How is this your fault?"

"I — you wouldn't be out here if it wasn't for me, and now Mikey's gone because of whatever the hell my parents were up to, and neither of you signed up for this." Frank shakes his head. Gerard had wanted to hang back, but Frank had pushed it, and now Mikey was fucking kidnapped. "I should've known. The house was broken into, for Christ's sake. I should have known."

"Then I should have known, too," Gerard says. "Look, I'm not blaming you. Feel guilty all you want, but it's not going to help us find him."

"Fuck." Frank digs his palms into the wheel. The ugly gnaw of remorse isn't going to dissipate, no matter what Gerard says. "Any ideas on how to do that?"

Gerard stares at him for a long second. "Do you have three hundred thousand dollars?"

"No, but—" Frank hates this. He'd dug a hole and dragged everyone down with him, only to remember at the last minute that he'd forgotten the ladder. "Who  _ are _ these guys? How did they even know where we were?" A pause. "Does Mikey have a cell phone on him?"

After a moment of thoughtful staring, Gerard nods jerkily and reaches into his pocket. He pulls out his phone and hits a few buttons. They wait in tense silence, until a chirping ringtone sounds out of the glovebox.

"Of course," Gerard grumbles. "He's always glued to the damn thing when I'm trying to have a conversation, but when there are  _ kidnappers, _ of course he leaves it."

Whoever took Mikey would most likely have just destroyed it, but Frank doesn't mention that. He gets the feeling Gerard already knows.

"I'm sorry," Frank tells him, mostly because he has no idea what else to say. He means it, though.

"We agreed to come," Gerard says, looking out the window so Frank can't see his face. Maybe that's for the better.

"I know, but." Frank watches his knuckles turn white against the wheel's black leather. He needs Gerard to get this, to understand that he's the last person Frank would ever want to screw over, though he's not sure when that became the case. "I'm still fucking sorry."

Gerard doesn't say that it's okay, or any of that bullshit, because it isn't — not when Mikey is god knows where and they're more than a quarter of a million dollars away from making ransom. He returns his attention to the dirt on the windshield, and silence stretches out between them.

"Are we going back to your place?" Gerard asks finally.

"Do you think it's safe?"

Gerard tugs on a strand of hair in his face. "If they found your parents' house…I don't know."

Frank flicks the turn signal and exits onto a ramp. "I have a friend who'll take us in."

Gerard eyes him dubiously. "Are they prepared for all of this?"

Thinking about all of the drunk nights, the hungover mornings, and the old miserable status quo that feels light-years away now, Frank almost snorts. "Trust me. He's dealt with worse."

*

Ray is wearing flannel pajama bottoms and a Metallica shirt that could fit a small European nation inside of it when he answers the door. He eyes them up and down in that appraising way of his — not judging, just curious, like a sentient X-ray machine — taking in the duffel bag on Frank's shoulder and their red-rimmed eyes. "You look like hell. Who's this?"

Jesus, as much as they bitch at each other, Frank's fucking missed him. "This is Gerard, he's a medium from Lily Dale."

"Hm," Ray hums, considering. "Did you reach nirvana yet, or whatever? Because if not, Brian's going to be pissed."

"It's…complicated," Frank says with a wince, wishing he could come up with something better than a Facebook relationship status to describe how everything has gone to shit.

"It always is." Ray sticks out a hand to Gerard, formally acknowledging him for the first time. "Nice to meet you, man. I'm—"

"Ray," Gerard says miserably, like he can't help himself. "Your grandfather says hi."

Ray blinks a few times in succession before settling on, "Um."

"It's part of the medium thing," Frank explains hurriedly. "Look, Ray, I know it's a lot to ask, but we need a place to crash."

Ray makes a sympathetic face. "Did you finally get evicted?"

"What?  _ No, _ I didn't—" Frank glances at Gerard in his peripheral vision, flushing. He takes back what he said about missing Ray. The dude can go kiss a brick. "It's a long story, okay? I can explain inside."

Ray's expression shifts into something more serious, and Frank knows he's finally gotten through. With a nod, Ray steps to the side. "Welcome to Hotel Toro."

On their way in, Ray points out the guest room on the left. Gerard immediately makes for it, letting the door swing shut behind him. Frank thinks about following until Ray grabs his attention by raising an eyebrow.

"He's normally not like this," Frank defends. "Seriously. I broke into his house and he didn't even yell at me. He's got a right to be upset right now." Ray raises the other eyebrow. "Again, a long story."

"Which you should tell me."

"I will." Pushing up onto his toes, Frank eyes the kitchen behind Ray hopefully. "Beer?"

Ray hesitates, but Frank makes his most pathetic face and it's only a matter of seconds before he cracks. "Just one, okay? Don't tell Brian."

"Won't tell Brian," Frank promises. Ray, saintly Ray, rummages around in his fridge and comes back up with a glorious brown bottle. Though Ray is fixing him with his most impatient look, Frank waits until he's knocked the top off on the side of Ray's counter and taken a long gulp before recounting the past week.

"So," he says, voice thick from just swallowing, "I accidentally got his brother kidnapped."

Ray's eyebrows shoot all the way up his forehead. Even his hair looks shocked. "Jesus, dude, okay. Start from the beginning."

And so Frank tells him, everything from how Gerard should be a con artist in every sense of the word but somehow isn't, to how Frank's parents are total dicks, to the part where they've got three days to scrape up more money than Frank has seen in his entire life. Ray ends up letting him have two beers, because it's sort of a lengthy tale.

"So you have no idea who these guys are?" Ray asks once he's finished.

Frank shakes his head. "None. All we have is their number."

"Then you should turn that in to the police," Ray says. "Maybe they could track it or something?"

Frank gives him a mordant look. "What, I hand it over and tell them, 'hey, here's an ominous black card we found after my friend got kidnapped, we didn't notice because we were too busy talking to ghosts'? If I show up with a story like that, they're going to lock  _ me _ up."

"Omit some details," Ray suggests. "Still. It's abduction. The police don't take that shit lightly, man."

Frank wrestles with the idea in his mind for a second. "Okay, so let's say we get incredibly lucky and they believe us. Then what? The police roll up outside of those guys' meth house or whatever?" After taking a glance over his shoulder in the direction of the guest room door, Frank lowers his voice. "The first thing they'll do is shoot Mikey. These people drove my parents to suicide, Ray, they're not messing around."

Ray sucks in a sharp breath. "Right, okay. Should we tell Brian?"

"Call him in the morning," Frank says, resigned. The analog clock in Ray's kitchen tells him they're already well past midnight. "No point in getting him riled up this late, he'll just go crazy."

Ray nods, hair bouncing. "You tired?"

As much as Frank wants to deny it, he can't. In the past sixteen hours, enough shit has gone down to constitute a lifetime. "It's been a long fucking day."

"You're not getting another beer," Ray says. It's possible that he knows Frank too well. Damnit. "The couch doesn't pull out anymore, but the guest room's bed is a king. Up to you."

"I know the couch doesn't pull out anymore, motherfucker." Frank grins a little. "I was the one who broke it."

"I seem to recall that you weren't alone when it happened," Ray intones, all faux-nostalgic. "What was his name, Zach? Zander? Whatever. Point is, if you plan on doing  _ that _ again, at least be quiet this time. And try not to break anything." He leers a little in the direction of the guest bedroom.

"What, with  _ Gerard?" _ Frank sputters before can stop himself, face flaming. "Ray, come on. This isn't — I mean. I'm _ not." _

"Uh huh." Ray's smirking, and okay, he  _ definitely _ knows Frank too well. "Sleep tight, smooth guy."

Frank turns his back and gives Ray the finger over his shoulder, ignoring the stifled snort of laughter he gets in return. It probably doesn't help his case that the first place he goes is the guest bedroom, but Ray can fuck off. He's just  _ checking in. _

Frank pushes the door open barely a crack and knocks, trying to announce his presence subtly instead of barging in like normal. "Gee? Hey."

When there are no screams about being naked or wanting to be left alone, Frank decides he's in the clear and uses his hip to open the door the rest of the way. Inside, Gerard is sat slumped on the bed and staring at the wall to Frank's right, but he's not wearing his usual zoned-out-with-the-dead face. Frank clears his throat, trying again, and this time Gerard's eyes flick over to him. "You sort of disappeared earlier, man. Everything okay?"

"'M good." Gerard lifts one shoulder. With the direct eye contact, though, Frank can tell he's been crying.

"Jesus, no you're not." Frank gives up on lingering awkwardly at the door and goes to sit next to Gerard on the bed, weirdly conscious of the distance between them. Far enough that Frank could tilt his head without bumping anything, but still close to the point where he can hear Gerard's shallow breathing, like he's trying to cry but has already run out of tears. "I'm sorry," Frank adds reflexively.

Gerard swipes at Frank's upper arm half-heartedly. "Stop that."

"I can't help it," Frank says. "I fucked everything up. You two seemed really close."

"We were," Gerard agrees, then blinks. "I mean, we  _ are. _ I don't have a lot of people in my life who love me unconditionally like that. Just him and—" He breaks off abruptly, blinking furiously.

"Elena?" Frank guesses, voice soft. Gerard looks away. Strange, because that secret has been out of the bag for a while, and Gerard had never really withheld in the first place.

"I called to her." Gerard's voice cracks. "She didn't show up. She isn't here."

"Her grave?" Frank suggests, weak even to his own ears.

"She's never left me before, Frankie." Gerard meets his gaze, and his eyes are so bloodshot, but still as dry as the desert. "Since the day after she passed, she's always been there. I don't think I'd be alive without her."

Out of nowhere, Frank's mind flashes back to the night in Lily Dale when Gerard had explained to him how inside of some people storms a contradiction. And it hits him, suddenly, that Gerard doesn't have a paradox.

"She can't be completely gone. The Fox sisters said so." Before he can talk himself out of it, Frank gingerly lays his head on Gerard's shoulder. Immediately, Gerard stiffens, and the room is so silent that Frank swears he can hear the pulse under Gerard's skin, a pitter-patter thumping above his eyebrow. Then Gerard slides his hand over to place it on top of Frank's where it's resting on his thigh, and something tight unclenches in Frank's chest. He turns their hands over in order to properly thread their fingers together. This isn't the first time they've done this, not by a long shot, but something's changed. Or maybe not  _ changed, _ but unfolded, brought into better light so he can see it without squinting.

"She's not gone," Frank says again, even though he's half-certain that Gerard isn't listening. "And neither is Mikey. I talked to Ray — we still have two and a half days. I got you into this, and I'm going to get you out."

Maybe Frank's imagining it, but Gerard leans into him, slow and careful like he's trying to figure out where he fits. "And if you don't?"

Frank closes his eyes. "Don't ask questions like that."

No, Gerard doesn't have a paradox. He  _ is _ the paradox. A man who lives for the dead.

*

Frank doesn't wake up in Gerard's bed, but he does wake up in a bed with Gerard in it, which is sort of an interesting development.

Neither of them were able to scrape up the motivation to change, and Gerard hadn't brought clothes anyway, so now Frank's bare chest is pressed up against the cotton of Gerard's t-shirt. He feels the heat through it absently, still half-taken by sleep, and rolls further forward on his shoulder to seek out more. Gerard makes a low noise but his eyes don't open, and his arms stay draped around Frank. They're heavy, dead weight, but Frank doesn't mind.

An insistent voice in the back of his head wishes more than anything that he'd woken up like this a month ago, when his name was still Frank Russo, and the warm body next to him wasn't missing everyone he loves. Before his parents killed themselves.

Gerard stirs and Frank pulls back a few inches, because there's really no excuse for being all up in the guy's business despite clearly being awake. He's not going to take advantage of Gerard, no way. Even if — _ if  _ — there is something, this is just about the worst time possible to find out.

"Good morning," Gerard says, voice scratchy from sleep but not at all weirded-out.

"Morning," Frank says back, and if his heart moves any further up his throat he'll be able to taste it.

*

Brian is already in the kitchen with Ray when Frank and Gerard finally wander out, because they both have the supernatural ability to be up and functional before nine in the morning. Completely unnecessary, considering that the three of them work at a bar, and Frank's suspected for years that dark forces are behind it.

He watches as Gerard exchanges a miscommunicated handshake-slash-wave with Brian. Smiling to himself, Frank stretches his arms over his head and offers Brian a nod of his own. "Schechter."

"Iero," Brian retorts without missing a beat, and Frank's face drops in shock. "Ray filled me in already. Maybe now you'll start using my first name."

"Unlikely." A second after Gerard, Frank notices the two unattended and still steaming mugs of coffee on the counter. Brian and Ray are already nursing their own. "Oh, man, Toro. You are the  _ best." _

"So I've been told." Ray smiles smugly. "Creamer, still?"

"Yeah, please. And Gerard takes it straight," he adds before Ray can ask, because it's not like Gerard is going to say it. The dude's already buried nose-first in his giant mug. Ray turns his smugness up by another hundred percent and wiggles his eyebrows in a way that is probably supposed to convey  _ aww, _ but Frank pointedly ignores him.

"So I've been thinking about your million dollar problem—" Brian starts.

"Three hundred thousand dollar problem," Frank corrects, then takes a sip.

Brian waves him off. "Not as catchy. Anyway, I've been thinking about it for almost an hour now."

Frank quirks an eyebrow, trying to keep the hope out of his voice. "And?"

"And nothing," Brian concludes unceremoniously. "We're fucked. That's more than the bar is worth, for Christ's sake."

"Stripping?" Frank suggests off-handedly. Ray rolls his eyes.

"That can't be your solution every time, come on. Besides, that's only good for when you need, like, rent money. Not ransom money."

Frank nods, considering. "Okay, then we'll rob a bank."

Next to him, Gerard hits his head against the countertop. A little overdramatic, but whatever.

Brian mutters something incoherent that is more than likely a curse and rubs his temples. "Frank, I swear this wasn't my intention when I dropped you off in Lily Dale. You were just supposed to have some fake magician wow you and then tell you that your parents loved you, or whatever."

Frank slaps a hand down on the counter. "Motherfucker! I knew you didn't believe in all that shit!"

Gerard's head lifts up and he glares at Frank. "Seriously, I'm right here."

"I didn't mean now. Like,  _ before." _ Frank flutters a hand in the air. "Hey, are you smiling? Fucker—"

Ray cuts in before things can escalate. "Frank, can you sell your parents' house?"

Abandoning his attempt to side-check Gerard, Frank stops and thinks. "In forty-eight hours?"

"Oh. Um. Maybe the market is moving fast?"

Sometimes, Frank wishes he could be an optimist. "The place is wrecked, and even before that, it was only worth a hundred and fifty thousand on a good day."

"Oh." Ray's face falls. "Good point."

"I still don't get why we can't call the police," Brian says. Almost imperceptibly, Gerard stiffens. Frank only catches it because he's already watching him out of the corner of his eye.

"They won't take us seriously," Ray explains, probably not for first time. He doesn't mention the other reason.

Brian rubs a fist into his eye and sighs. "Then who the fuck are we gonna call? The Ghostbusters?"

"If you can find their number," Frank mutters dryly. "Until then, we're on our own."

"Here." Turning around, Ray pulls a drawer open and fishes around until he finds his wallet. He takes all the cash out of it and flicks through the thin stack before slapping it down in the middle of the counter. "Last night's tips. Fifty-four dollars."

Wordlessly, Brian reaches into the back pocket of his jeans and procures his own wallet, adding more bills to the pile. "Make that eighty-seven."

Frank dips his hands into his pockets only to find them empty. Of course. He hasn't worked a shift in over a week. Gerard, however, is still in his jeans from yesterday, and he finds his wallet with ease. "Add forty to that."

It doesn't mean anything and they all know it. It's barely a dent. Still, a strange surge of affection overcomes Frank as he looks around at his friends, his people, and their hopeless demeanors covered up with brave masks. He doesn't deserve them.

"Great," is what he says out loud. "Only two hundred and ninety-nine thousand, eight hundred and seventy-something to go."

*

Frank is sat at the kitchen counter, eating a sandwich and just generally feeling dejected, when he hears voices pick up in the other room. He gets up and toes silently to the opening between the rooms, wanting to see if he's hearing things wrong — but no, it's really Brian and Gerard on the couch together. Due to the angle, Frank can't see anything below their shoulders, and he can only make out their facial features in profile when they turn to talk to one another.

"So, I wanted to ask you for a favor." Brian sounds almost, what the hell,  _ nervous? _ "If you don't mind. No pressure, because I know you've got a lot of other things going on right now, but—"

Gerard smiles the way he sometimes does at Frank, like he's one step ahead of him but isn't going to be an asshole about it. "You want a reading?"

"If you're up for it." Brian's shoulders sag. "I don't have any more cash on me now, but whatever you charge, I can get it to you in a few days."

"Nothing, for you," Gerard says, no hesitation.

"Are you sure? I don't mind, seriously."

"Yes, I'm sure. You're already helping me out way more than most people would just by being here. Besides, you're a friend of Frank's. If he likes you, you're a good guy." Unbidden, the corners of Frank's mouth quirk up.

"That's really generous, thank you." Brian shifts slightly. "I, uh, don't really know how this works, though."

"This is going to be pretty informal, so don't stress about it." Gerard closes his eyes, but he doesn't reach for Brian's hands. "Is there anything in particular you're looking for? Any questions?"

"Not really," Brian says after a moment. "Or just the same as the next guy, I guess. I'd like to know who's out there, who's watching me."

Gerard is silent for a spell, but when his voice returns, it's so low that Frank almost doesn't catch it. "You've experienced a lot of loss, haven't you?"

Almost imperceptibly, Brian nods.

"There's a girl here. She's young. Beautiful, too, green eyes and long brown hair." Frank watches, rapt, to try and catch Brian's response, but his face turns away. "Isabelle. Do you know an Isabelle?"

"My high school sweetheart," Brian says, voice rough like Frank has never heard it. "We were together almost the whole time, all the way to senior year."

"Until—" Gerard's voice grows hushed. "Oh no."

"The day before graduation." Brian's shoulders hunch impossibly lower, voice breaking. "I thought I was going to marry her."

"She's sorry," Gerard says softly. "She's so, so sorry. It's all I can feel."

"It's okay. It's been years. I know why she did it." Brian wipes his face onto his sleeve. "I felt that way sometimes, too."

"She says she's proud that you didn't. That you were stronger than her."

"No one was stronger than her." Brian sniffs. "No one had to deal with half the shit she did."

"She's glad you built something for yourself. Says she always knew you would."

Brian lets out a pathetic snort of laughter. "I manage a bar, Isabelle. It's not rocket science."

Gerard shakes his head. "That's not what she meant. She thinks you could do anything you put your mind to."

"Yeah, she used to say that all the time." A tiny, wistful smile. "And I thought it was true, until I lost her."

"She's apologizing again."

"Tell her to rest easy," Brian says. "I'll always forgive her."

Frank rocks back on his heels, leaning out of sight just as Brian stands up and turns around. "Ray?" he calls, loud enough to be heard through Ray's shut door.

An unruly head of hair pops around the corner. "Yeah?"

"I'm going in, see you in a couple of hours, okay?"

Frank hears keys rattle and decides it's time to announce his presence. "Am I coming?"

Brian spins to face him, eyebrows raised. "No way. We've already scheduled around you, and you need to channel all of your brainpower into coming up with our million dollar plan."

Frank sighs but doesn't bother correcting him. "I wish Toro was the manager."

"Toro doesn't," Ray chimes in, still at his door. "Brian works so hard he's going to turn grey by the time he's thirty-five. I can't have that."

"See? There you go." Brian's eyebrows furrow a second later, seeming to have realized the backhanded compliment. "Wait."

Ray waves at him, grinning. "Bye, Brian."

Brian grumbles something but goes, closing the door behind him. Ray's door follows suit.

A moment later, Gerard appears in the kitchen, one eyebrow cocked in amusement. He's showered and changed into a Ray-sized t-shirt and sweatpants. Frank tries not to care too much about that; it's not like his clothes would fit Gerard. But still. "Eavesdropper," Gerard accuses.

Frank looks at his half-eaten sandwich and tries not to expel guilty vibes. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Did you know about that?" Gerard continues as if Frank hadn't said anything. "Isabelle, I mean?"

Frank shakes his head. "He doesn't talk about his past much. But none of us do, really, so I guess I never noticed."

"Yeah," Gerard says absently, kind of looking through Frank instead of at him again. "Strange, that she of all people showed up. I get the feeling that Brian has a lot of options in that department."

Frank isn't sure he wants to know what that entails. "That was the first time I've watched you do that to someone besides me."

Gerard crinkles his nose, attention back on Frank. "Is it totally weird?"

"No — you actually  _ help _ people," Frank says, trying to stress the point. "I've ever seen Schechter open up like that, and I've known him for years."

Shrugging, Gerard deflects the praise. "The spirits help people. I just deliver the message."

One side of Frank's mouth lifts. "Gee, you'll believe anything but the truth."

*

Ray eventually leaves to join Brian at the bar, and with nothing else to do in someone else's house, Gerard and Frank find themselves watching  _ Wheel of Fortune _ and bouncing ideas off of each other.

"Identity theft," Frank suggests. Illegal, sure, but if they could nab some people's credit cards without getting caught, maybe it could work.

"What?" Gerard is really, really focused on the television. He's proven himself to be freakishly good at  _ Wheel  _ so far — Frank suspects it's because it airs on one of the only channels available in Lily Dale. "Frankie, the category is 'Around the House'."

"No, I meant—"

"Feather duster!" The camera pans to Vanna White, who is artfully displaying the completed puzzle, and sure enough, Gerard's right. Frank shakes his head fondly, and Gerard's neck flushes. "Uh, sorry. What were you saying?"

"Nothing. Just another bad idea."

"I wish we could just be on  _ Wheel," _ Gerard says wistfully. "Win the million, pay those dicks their ransom money, and then still have enough to go on a kick-ass vacation in Europe."

"Isn't it a one-person game?" Then, as an afterthought, "You want to go to Europe?"

"Sometimes they have couples' nights and stuff." Gerard shrugs, all too casual, and Frank has to stare at the wall behind him and think  _ really hard _ about how Gerard's just using that as an example. "And yeah, doesn't everybody?"

Okay, well, he's got a point there. But — "I just thought, I don't know. You made it sound like you wanted to live the rest of your life in Lily Dale."

"I mean, Lily Dale's great." Gerard actually looks away from the television screen. "There's a common denominator with everyone, because we're all mediums. But."

"But?"

Gerard tugs on a piece of his hair. "The world is so huge, and just because my hometown hates me for what I am, I don't think that means everyone will. Not anymore."

Frank opens his mouth to say something, a half-formed thought about how really, Gerard isn't anything like Frank had originally made him out to be. Before he can get the words out, though, Gerard yells, "Oh! Beautiful sand beaches!" and a lady in a cardigan wins a trip to Maui. So Frank decides to keep it to himself.

*

The incessant ringing of a cell phone wakes Frank up the next morning, but he always keeps his on vibrate. Plus, he wouldn't be caught dead with Britpop as his ringtone. He reaches over and shakes Gerard's shoulder as "Common People" by Pulp breaks into the chorus, getting a groan in response.

"Your phone's ringing," Frank says into his ear. All Gerard does is groan again. "Okay, fine. I'll just jam out to Pulp all by myself."

Suddenly, Gerard bolts upright. "Shit, it's Pulp? Why didn't you  _ tell _ me? Where the fuck is the phone?"

"I did tell you." Frank reaches over to the nightstand and grabs Gerard's phone for him. "But what the hell kind of difference does that make?"

"Pulp means that the Assembly is calling. Shit, shit, shit." Gerard snaps the phone open and holds it up to his ear. "Hello? Gerard Way speaking."

Feeling distinctly intrusive, Frank swings his feet out of bed and onto the floor, about to see himself out. But then a light hand rests on his shoulder and he twists around to see Gerard watching him, silently willing him to stay while he listens to whatever the Lily Dale Assembly has to say. Frank hesitates, because he'd been gearing up for a cup of coffee, really, until something in Gerard’s eyes makes him reprioritize.

He places his hand over Gerard's and squeezes. The worry line between his brows doesn't let up.

"No, I would have given you more warning, it's just that the matter was very sudden." Gerard has his professional voice on, the same one he greeted Frank with the first day they met. Déjà vu. "A medical emergency, yes. My brother is in the hospital. I have to stay with him for two more days."

Frank raises an eyebrow at him, and Gerard looks away guiltily.

"Yes, I'll make them all up. Of course." A long pause, during which Frank wishes for better hearing so he could understand what the hell is going on at the other end of that line. He nudges Gerard's knee where it's tucked against his chest but only gets a nervous frown in return. "Yes, I am aware of my position, Circe. You know I wouldn't have done this under any other circumstances."

Circe. Frank narrows his eyes. He guesses that technically —  _ technically _ — he wouldn't have met Gerard without her, but now she's making Gerard twitch, so Frank still kind of wants to mess her face up.

By the time Frank stops playing out A Hundred and One Ways to Break Circe's Nose, Gerard is saying, "I understand completely. Thank you for being so accommodating. Yes, sure. You too."

With a  _ click, _ the phone snaps shut, and Gerard turns his nastiest glare on the unsuspecting wall in front of them. "Fucking — _ fuck." _

"I hate Circe," Frank agrees sympathetically.

"You've met Circe?" Brief stupefaction passes over Gerard's features before he puts two and two together. "Oh. Right. Back when — yeah. Her real name is Beatrice, you know that?"

Frank laughs. He  _ knew _ there was no way a medium would get lucky enough to have a name so fitting. "What'd she want?"

"She was calling on behalf of the entire Assembly. Apparently they noticed I've been dropping appointments."

"So you lied to them?"

Gerard frowns. "What else was I supposed to do?"

Which is — okay, a pretty good point. And definitely easier to explain than their actual predicament. "Are they mad?"

Gerard exhales and his whole body deflates with it. "They're threatening to revoke my mediumship license if I'm not back soon. That excuse bought me two days, but after that…"

"Yeah." Frank swallows hard, but all the things he wants to say are stuck to the inside of his throat. "I get it."

"But if—" Gerard blinks a few times, looking down. "If I lose Mikey, I don't know. I couldn't just go back there and pretend things are fine."

Frank is shit with words and he knows it. The urge to kiss Gerard thrums through him like a solid, tangible thing, and it takes everything in him to push it down. Now isn't the time.

"We still have two days," Frank says, as if that means anything. "Two days."

*

Gerard makes himself scarce for the entire afternoon, but every time Frank catches him, he's staring at a wall or a ceiling with a scrunched-up face.

To Frank's credit, he does a decent job of just letting Gerard be. That is, until Brian and Ray leave for work again, and Frank gets so bored that's he ready to start climbing the walls.

"Anybody here?" Frank leans against the doorframe of the guest room, which, one way or another, has turned into his and Gerard's room. Okay, that's something he needs to not think too hard about. There's no gleam in Gerard's eyes, so Elena must still be a no-show, but Frank figures he may as well ask.

"You missed it," Gerard informs him. "My distant great aunt once-removed stopped by. Margaret."

Frank tries to wrap his head around that ancestry but gives up just as quickly. "She cool?"

"I mean, relatively." Gerard pats the spot on the bed next to him and Frank takes the hint, settling in and tucking his legs underneath himself. "You'd probably think she's old fashioned."

Frank scratches his jaw. "Dead people tend to be, I'd think."

"You'd be surprised," Gerard says, a slight quirk to his mouth. "I'm glad she visited me, though. She knew Elena."

And just like that, the room feels ten degrees colder. Frank keeps his voice carefully neutral to ask, "She's still gone, then?"

Gerard nods. "I tried to ask Margaret where she was, but older spirits are usually more scatterbrained—" Frank tries, and fails, to not think about his parents. How much life they were supposed to have stretched ahead of them, and how forty-nine is far too fucking young to die.  _ Cowards. _ "—so getting a straight answer is harder. All she said is that Elena loves me very much, and she wouldn't have left without a good reason."

Frank presses his leg up against Gerard's lightly, trying to reassure him in a way he knows words can't. "But that's probably just old-person ramblings," Gerard says quietly. "At least I haven't seen Mikey yet." 

Frank finds Gerard's hand and holds on tight.

*

On the morning of their last day, even the creamer in Frank's coffee tastes bitter. Ray and Brian have already dumped their tips from the night before with the rest of the crumpled collection on the kitchen counter, and now they all stand around and stare hopelessly at it.

"I've said it before, but I'll say it again." Frank looks down into his mug. "Counterfeit money."

"Still illegal, Frank." Brian is such a buzzkill, seriously. "Just like it was the last two times."

"Plus, if those guys know how to tell reals from fakes, we're all dead men," Ray adds helpfully. Frank takes another long sip of coffee.

"We have to call them," Gerard says into the following silence. "Even though we don't have the money. It might buy us time."

"Or piss them off even more," Ray says. Frank aims a kick at his shin.

Gerard pinches the bridge of his nose between two fingers. "I hate to break this to you guys, but we're sort of out of options." He doesn't say it, but the part where his brother's life is at stake is pretty much implied.

"We'll call," Frank concedes. "Just…in a few hours." Ray casts him a squinty look, which he pointedly ignores. "Give us a little bit longer to brainstorm. Please."

Gerard manages to meet his eyes, and Frank has no idea how he's holding it together so well. He nods, once, and the clock starts ticking.

*

The four of them are a dysfunctional brainstorming group, to say the least. Ray gets fed up with Brian's pacing within the first twenty minutes and only a quick intervention from Frank keeps them from swinging on each other — and  _ Frank's _ supposed to be the aggressive one here. The stress is eating away at everyone.

Brian huffs and says that he's going for a walk in a tone so passive-aggressive it could rival Frank's mom. Ray grumbles something in response that probably could have gotten him fired had Brian heard it and shuts himself in his room. That leaves Gerard and Frank on the couch together in the living room, just kind of staring at each other.

After another half hour of terrible ideas and nervous fidgeting, Frank finally gives up and asks Gerard to tell him more about Mikey. He needs to talk about something, anything, to get him out of his own head, and maybe this'll help him look at the issue from a different angle.

Gerard hesitates for a second, and then says to the wall, "Please don't tell me you have a thing for my brother."

"What?" Frank squeaks. He clears his throat self-consciously. "No, I just — I barely got to know him, and he's really important to you, and it's not like sitting here in silence is doing us any good, Christ. He's not even my type." The second the last sentence leaves his mouth, he regrets it.

And Gerard is such an asshole — or maybe also desperate for a change of topic — because he asks, "You have a type?"

"Everybody has a type." Frank rolls his eyes and tries his hand at the whole 'nonchalance' thing.

"I don't," Gerard supplies helpfully, and this isn't what Frank had in mind at all when he started this conversation. "Or, I don't know, maybe I do and I just haven't had the chance to figure it out. Most of my clients are old ladies, after all."

"Tell me about your brother." Frank attempts fruitlessly to steer them back on topic.

Even though he can't bear to look, he can hear Gerard's answering grin in his voice. Frank doesn't know if he should be relieved or annoyed that Gerard still has to capacity to do so. "Tell me about your type."

"Panic makes you bold, doesn't it?"

"Maybe a little," is all Gerard will admit to. "So?"

"Your brother is my type," Frank says dryly.

"Of, fuck off," Gerard says, but there's no bite to it. "Fine. Have your secrets."

"Are you trying to guilt-trip me? Fuck you."

"Of course not," Gerard intones innocently. "On a completely unrelated note, though, I'd like to point out how honest I've always been with you."

Frank huffs out a breath, trying really hard not to think about how Gerard is totally right. Finally, after a minute of silence stretches out between them, Frank thinks  _ fuck it. _ Maybe the all-absorbing panic can make him a little braver too.

Besides, after tomorrow, Gerard goes back to Lily Dale. What has he got to lose?

"I like interesting people," he says quietly. "People who could never, ever been seen in a fashion magazine. People with stories, and opinions. And flaws." He turns his head and risks a look over at Gerard, who's staring right back with big, attentive eyes that Frank can feel all the way in his gut.

His voice drops so low that it's only audible because the room is empty. "I like dark hair, long enough to thread my hands into and pull." Frank's fairly certain that even with his head turned away, Gerard can see his blush. "Nice eyes. Pretty mouths."

"That's still not very specific," Gerard murmurs back. Absently, Frank wonders which one of them shifted nearer, because now they're close enough to breathe each other's air.

"I don't know, Gee." His head feels loose on his body, clouded over. "Sometimes I just know it when I see them."

Two fingertips rest under Frank's chin and pull his gaze back to Gerard's, and it's so intense that Frank feels like he's going to melt right into the couch. He wants to look away, but he can't; not because of Gerard's fingers, which are so feather-light that he could easily pull back, no. It's the way Gerard is looking at him, undoing him slowly without even a single word.

Finally, after what feels like an eon, Gerard says, "I always know. When I see them, I mean. I always know."

And by then, really, the decision is out of Frank's hands. This is going to happen whether he likes it or not, even if it may just be the worst idea of his life. One of his hands finds the back of Gerard's neck, and his fingertips dance across where his hairline meets warm skin. Then he kisses him.

It's too good, closed-mouth and sickly-sweet, and Frank only makes it a few moments before he has to pull back and gasp, "We — I shouldn't have. You're hurting right now. I don't want to take advantage of you, I can't—"

Gerard interrupts him, voice low and insistent in a way that makes Frank's stomach drop. "Do it again."

"Are you—" But Frank doesn't get to finish that question, because Gerard's kissing him. "Impatient," Frank murmurs against his lips.

"I've been patient since the day I met you," Gerard returns, still a whisper but almost fervent. "Jesus Christ, Frankie, you show up on my front porch looking like the best thing I've ever seen and I've had to keep it to myself since then.  _ Fuck  _ being patient."

"You—" Frank tries to asks, because has Gerard actually thought that since day one? As in, they could have been doing this way earlier? Before Frank can dwell on all that wasted time, Gerard pulls him back in, and Frank gives up on everything that doesn't involve Gerard's mouth.

Gerard kisses him, again and again like the world is ending, and Frank just leans back and takes it. This normally isn't how he operates — he'd be on top of someone by now, doing something smooth that involved getting their pants off, but with Gerard it's just…different.

"I can feel your heartbeat," Gerard murmurs as he presses a hand to Frank's chest, then uses his other hand to guide Frank's palm to where his own heart is rabbiting. The idea that he could do that to Gerard, even that little thing, has Frank short of breath. "We match," Gerard says against his mouth. Frank couldn't fucking agree more.

It's minutes until they finally break apart. Frank's hormones bitch at him for it, but he's not in the business of breaking Ray's couch  _ again. _ Plus — Frank realizes as his head starts to clear and reality sets back in — they still have a huge-ass problem to solve. Even if his time with Gerard is so limited, even if he just made it so much harder to say goodbye.

Oblivious to the storm of thoughts in Frank's head, Gerard presses himself into his side. A fresh rush of warmth spreads through him like the clouds parting. "You know. Elena would've loved you," Gerard says against his neck.

"Not past tense," Frank reminds him gently. He refuses to believe that she could have just vanished, not after finding his own parents. Elena is everything to Gerard, and vice versa, and she would never have abandoned him without an undeniable reason, something life and death, something that could — Frank's head snaps up. "Holy shit. Wait."

Gerard tilts his head at him, mouth wet and pink, and Frank's train of thought briefly threatens to derail. He grasps at the edges of the idea and pulls it back together before it can get too far. "Elena. You said she's always been there for you."

Gerard looks at him like he's spontaneously grown another head. "Yes?"

"What if — what if that's because you always needed her the most?" Frank hears the way it sounds and winces, attempting to backpedal. "I don't mean — just because of how you were treated growing up. I don't mean it like  _ that." _

"Frank." Gerard looks up at him through his eyelashes, an impatient edge to it.

"Right, hang on. What I'm trying to say is — what if she just goes wherever she's most needed? What if that's not with you, right now?"

Gerard looks skeptical. "So she would be with Mikey? I mean, theoretically, that would be nice, but I don't really see how—"

"Then what if—" Frank barrels on, tripping over his own words as his mind pieces things together too fast for his tongue to keep up. He makes incoherent gestures, desperately willing Gerard to understand. "What if we don't need the money to get Mikey back?"

"But the only thing they want is—" Frank sees the exact moment that it clicks into place for Gerard, too — his mouth falls open and he whispers, "Oh my god."

"I think it could work," Frank presses.

A handful of emotions flash across Gerard's face, and he bites his lip. "In theory."

_ "Gerard." _ He draws out the word. "This could  _ work." _

Gerard grits his teeth. Frank thinks about the pitter-patter of his heart he'd felt earlier, how it must be going crazy now. "Okay, yes. But we don't have a lot of time, Frank.  _ Call them." _

*

Frank leans his whole body up against Ray's door and hollers his name until he finally yanks it open, almost introducing Frank's face to the floor. "Call Brian. Tell him you're sorry for being a dick and that he needs to get his ass back here."

Ray squints at him. "Why do you look so happy?"

"Because we figured it out," Frank says, like  _ duh. _ There are other reasons, but Ray can deduce those on his own.

With an even more dubious look, Ray says, "Uh huh," and closes the door in Frank's face. Whatever. Frank can't be too mad, because Brian walks through the door five minutes later, and then they're all standing around in the kitchen again.

"You know," Ray says, "I put furniture in my living room for a reason."

Frank rolls his eyes, and then he and Gerard launch into the plan, taking turns finalizing things and trying to put it in normal-person language. Ray's expression becomes so surprised that Frank is pretty sure his eyebrows are going to fly off of his forehead, and Brian gives Frank the same look he did the day Frank tried to engineer a new variety of breakfast drink using only coffee, orange juice, and vodka. Insane, but maybe a little brilliant.

Once they're done, Ray and Brian say at the same exact time, "Dude,  _ call." _ So Frank does.

His fingers tremble as he types in the number on the black card, but he tries to be discreet about it. It must not work so well, because Gerard finds his free hand under the counter and squeezes.

The whole room is tense and silent as Frank speaks. Frank's grip tightens so much on Gerard's hand that it must be painful, but he doesn't pull away. When the call is finally over — less than a minute later, the clock on the microwave informs him, though it may as well have been a lifetime — Frank lets out a long, deep breath.

"They said to come alone," he tells them finally. Grabbing an old receipt and a pen, he starts to scribble down an address. "Tomorrow at dusk. Unarmed. They told me where to go and warned that if I mention it to the police, they'll—" His eyes cut over to Gerard, and the words fall away. "Well. You know."

"Then we can do this," Gerard decides, voice only wavering slightly.

No one disagrees, and that's about the best they're going to get right now. "Did you recognize the voice?" Ray asks.

"No." Frank shakes his head. "No accent, nothing. The most monotone thing I've ever heard."

"I bet they're robots," Brian adds.

Frank looks down at the counter, counting the flecks in the granite. "They called me Iero."

No one makes any more jokes after that.

*

Frank and Gerard press up close to one another in bed that night, listening to each other's breathing and pretending like their lives couldn't end tomorrow.

"I miss Mikey," Gerard murmurs against the shell of Frank's ear. Instead of answering, Frank kisses the closest thing he can reach, which just so happens to be his shoulder. "And Elena," Gerard continues solemnly. "And, fuck, soon I'm going to have to miss you too."

"You'll have both of them back soon." He wishes he could say more and make it three out of three, but he's never that fucking lucky. The words are muffled against the cotton of another t-shirt Ray lent Gerard. Frank had opted to sleep shirtless, but apparently Gerard hadn't picked up on the hint.

"Thank you for helping me find my parents," Frank says after a minute of nothing but breathing again. Gerard's eyes rove around his face, a little confused.

"You came to me for a reading, Frankie. It's my job."

Frank lifts an eyebrow. "You skip town and hunt down gravestones with every customer who stops by?"

Even in the sparse moonlight slatting through the window, Frank is fairly sure he sees a blush. "I may have gone above and beyond for you, but I will admit that my motives were not entirely, uh, business related."

"That's exploitation," Frank says, not at all in the way that one would normally deliver such a statement. He bites back the grin that threatens to take over his entire face.

"You want a refund?" Gerard snipes, and kisses him.

Being in a bed instead of on a couch is glorious, and Frank takes full advantage, rolling them over until he's straddling Gerard. He smirks and admits to himself that Gerard's stunned expression is getting him way more hot and bothered than it should, probably, before leaning down and capturing Gerard's mouth again. Gerard makes a deep noise that radiates all the way down to Frank's toes, and he returns in like, wondering how they'd gone so long without this.

"Thought you wanted to pull on my hair," Gerard murmurs a moment later. Frank's mouth freezes and Gerard fucking  _ laughs, _ the asshole. "Oh, come on. You're so fucking obvious. Long, dark hair? Who else could that be?"

"Lots of people!" Frank protests. "Megan Fox!"

Gerard makes a noise that encompasses exactly how unimpressed he is. Frank pulls back a little. "God, you're the worst."

But Gerard doesn't let him get far, arching up to find his lips in the dark again and biting the lower one gently, earning a broken moan. "Mhm," Gerard hums. "Really sounds like you mean that." Then Frank gets a hand in Gerard's hair and tugs, and the rest of the taunt is forgotten as his jaw goes slack.

"You're into that," Frank says, kind of awed. Gerard flushes. Just to test it, Frank pulls on his hair again, and he groans and lifts his hips up off the bed slightly. Frank is suddenly so turned on he can't feel his  _ spine. _ "That is so fucking hot, oh my god."

"Frank," Gerard gets out in a strained voice, and it occurs to Frank that there is a lot less making out going on right now than both of them would prefer. He sinks his other hand into Gerard's hair and they meet halfway in a kiss, hot and open-mouthed and perfect. Frank is pretty sure he's never wanted anything more in his life.

"You're—" Frank doesn't even know  _ what _ Gerard is, because his hands are on Frank's chest now and slowly sliding towards the waistband of his sweatpants, and Frank can hardly even breathe.  _ "Everything," _ he finally settles on, and it comes out as a gasp. "You're everything, Gee, you're—" Gerard's fingers ghost beneath the waistband, and Frank's sentiment turns into a moan. It's been too long since he's done this,  _ really _ done this, and he doesn't have the willpower to drag it out. He needs to get Gerard's shirt off right the fuck  _ now. _

"Can we?" Gerard asks desperately, like he needs it just as bad. The moonlight catches in a stripe over his eyes, and they glint at Frank, pulling him in. "Please?"

Frank knows how much worse this is going to make things after tomorrow. Sometimes it's better to remain oblivious to what things could have been, to not have to wake up in bed and reach for someone who isn't there. It's heartbreak in the making.

But, god, as if he could even fathom saying no.

*

"Good morning," Gerard says as soon as Frank opens his eyes, lining their lips up just after he's gotten the words out. Something bittersweet tightens in Frank's chest. It almost would have been easier as one-night stand; no loose ends, no messy feelings, no chapped lips pressed together with the sun peeking through the blinds.

"Morning breath," he complains, half-heartedly batting at Gerard's side but still kissing him back. He's going to miss this so bad, now that he's got a taste of it, and that stings like an absolute motherfucker — but it's not even the worst thing that today is supposed to bring.

It doesn't truly set in until he sees Brian flitting around the kitchen nervously as Ray watches on, coffee in one hand and a bagel in the other. "He's freaking out about leaving the bar unattended tonight," Ray explains through a mouthful. "He doesn't want to call Steph because it's her day off, and he already told Gabe he didn't need to come in, but Matt's there so much that he's going to have to move in soon."

Nodding, Frank steals the bagel from Ray's grasp and takes a bite. Ray gives him a nasty side-eye but doesn't move to stop him. "Yeah, well. Tell him we've got bigger problems."

"He can hear you." Brian abruptly stops pacing. "Not every issue in the world revolves around ghosts and kidnappers."

"Yeah," Frank mutters. "Just mine."

On the counter, the side of Gerard's hand presses up against Frank's. The casual intimacy shouldn't make his heart stutter, really, but it's not like logic has every applied to Gerard anyway. "Do we really have to wait until dusk?"

Frank considers that for a moment. "I think so, yeah. If we don't stick to their plan, they might assume something is up."

"Right," Gerard says, clearly disappointed. Frank gets it — it's his brother in there, and now that they know where he's being held, the urge to rush into action is stronger than ever. But this is a matter of clever deception and delicacy, and they can't let their impatience get the best of them. It's killing Frank, too; the look in Gerard's eyes is torture enough, never mind the fact that they'll be sitting around all day waiting.

Ray sets his mug down. "They must really think your parents are loaded."

Frank knows that it's early, and Ray is just saying the first thing that comes to mind because the caffeine hasn't kicked in yet, but Frank can't help his harrowed expression. If his parents had been rich, they'd likely still be on Earth instead of some fucking spiritual plane. Fuck. Linda and Frank  _ Iero. _ He is so not going through all the work to get his license changed.

Instead of answering, he just snatches Ray's coffee and sips some of that too.

*

Around Brian and Ray, Gerard keeps an optimistic disposition, and it's convincing enough that Frank almost begins to believe it. He obviously doesn't want them to worry, considering how much they're already putting on the line for him. Only once they're alone in the living room, Gerard's feet tucked underneath Frank's thigh and Frank's head on his shoulder, does he allow himself a shuddering breath and a shaky, "I don't know if I can do this."

Frank is quiet for a long second, because shit, he doesn't know if  _ any _ of them can do this. Gerard is tenacious and probably the smartest person Frank has ever met, but they still have no idea what they're going up against. Not for the first time, he feels a pang of guilt for dragging him into this in the first place. "Me neither," he admits, and there's a sort of peace in accepting the improbabilities. "Have you ever done something like this before?"

"Not like this," Gerard says. "It can be so unpredictable, and what if we're wrong? What if she isn't even there?"

"Then we'll improvise." Frank shrugs, feeling a wash of shame from not being able to provide anything better. Against him, Gerard doesn't relax.

"I'm worried, too, that I won't find a way to control it. That I won't be able to come back." Gerard looks up at him from under dark lashes with eyes so fragile that Frank can practically see the broken pieces in them already. It feels like a goodbye that he isn't prepared to say.

"You will, c’mon. You always find a way." Frank isn't sure who he's trying to convince anymore.

*

"So, what? Am I just supposed to knock on their front door?"

Ray frowns. "Do criminal headquarters have front doors?"

Frank rolls his eyes. "They're still people, Toro. Also, I sincerely doubt that this is their headquarters."

"My foot's falling asleep," Gerard complains.

"Jesus Christ." Frank buries his face in his hands. "They make this look so much smoother in  _ Mission Impossible." _

"I'm Tom Cruise," Ray says immediately, followed by a yelp as Brian smacks his arm.

"Are you kidding? Take one look at me and tell me I'm not the Tom Cruise here."

"Pins and needles," Gerard whines.

Ray very exaggeratedly rakes his eyes up and down Brian. "Well, I didn't want to embarrass you and say it out loud, but—"

"Neither of you are Tom Cruise!" Frank snaps.  _ "I'm _ motherfucking Tom Cruise!  _ You _ are the part of the job that requires lying low and shutting up, so anytime you'd like to start, that'd be  _ great." _

The bickering abruptly ceases. Frank can't believe he just talked to his  _ boss _ like that. The car's engine is already off, but he takes the keys out of the ignition to toss them over his shoulder to Ray in the back seat. "It's dark enough that they won't notice you this far away, but don't do anything that could draw their attention and don't move unless you have to." He takes a breath. This is the part where he's supposed to be a leader, even if his heart is threatening to beat out of his chest. "If I'm not back in thirty minutes, leave without me."

Brian leans forward. "What about Gerard?"

"He'll be back before then," Frank says before Gerard has the chance to protest. Leaving Frank behind is a reasonable possibility, but he sure as hell isn't letting them take off without Gerard. It's not Gerard’s fault they're here.

"Okay." The atmosphere in the car sobers dramatically. "Frank, in case something happens, you should know that it's been a privilege to be your friend and your—"

"Save the soppy shit, Schechter," Frank interrupts. "Nothing's going to happen. I owe you too many favors to clock out now."

But Brian knows him too well, because he sees right through the callousness to what it's being used to hide. The tender look on his face is insufferable. Ray says, "Yeah. Ditto," and Frank has to bite his tongue before he lets something slip about how he seriously owes these guys the world.

Gerard clears his throat. "We should probably—"

Oh. Right. Mikey. Frank throws open the car door and then closes it as silently as he can; they know he's coming, but it's better to be safe than sorry. Gerard follows his lead, picking up the duffel bag by his feet on the way out. It's filled with nothing but reams of paper, but its heft seems on par with what Frank imagines three hundred thousand dollars would feel like — the bag is so stuffed, the zipper barely closes. Through the windows, Brian and Ray shoot them four final thumbs-ups. An uneasy swoop pulls at Frank's stomach.

Taking the bag and supporting it with both hands — in retrospect, a briefcase would have seemed way cooler, damnit — Frank leads the way through the shadows. They're parked around the corner and then some, so he and Gerard have a minute before they are in view of the building. Still, the steps stretch on for miles apiece. They avoid streetlamps and keep their eyes roving, just in case.

Once they reach the point where road splits into a line of trees and a path to a building matching the address in Frank's pocket, Frank pauses under the cover of darkness and reiterates in a whisper, "Go around the back and find Elena, fast as you can. I don't know how long I'll be able to stall."

"I  _ know." _ Even at a time like this, Gerard has it in him to roll his eyes. Frank sort of adores him for it. "As long as Mikey is in the building, she’ll be close enough for me to locate. Just don't let them open the bag, and we'll be fine."

Frank tilts his head up and kisses him softly. "You better be careful. Just because we don't see guards doesn't mean they're not there."

Gerard cups a hand over the back of Frank's neck and holds him to the kiss for a second, pulling back and resting their foreheads together afterward. “Once I anchor to Elena, the guards won’t be an issue anymore. I'll come back to you, Frankie."

A knot forms in Frank's throat, and he has to swallow hard before he can speak again. "Promise?"

Gerard nods, then ducks to meet his mouth one more time, the feeling of his lips lingering even after he pulls away and melts into the shadows. Frank feels like a lovestruck teenager again, dumb and clueless, and he has to physically shake himself to snap out of it. Now is not the time.

Much to Ray's dismay, Frank imagines, the place does have a front door. On all physical aspects, the building looks completely unassuming. Lightning doesn't crackle in a circle around it and bats don't fly off of the roof to block out the moon; it's just a brickface house with a modest front porch and gravel driveway. Really, in comparison,  _ Frank's _ apartment looks sketchier. He supposes the best place to hide is in plain sight.

The door swings open before he manages to work up the courage to announce his presence, which is both a blessing and a curse. The man in the doorway is long and lean, yet wiry, and Frank isn't fooled by the pressed slacks and blazer he wears. There's no way he's beating this guy in a fight, even one-on-one.

"Frank Iero," he says, voice like metal on metal. It's not a question. Frank's skin crawls.

"Show me where he is," Frank manages, his traitorous voice shaking. He tries to focus on his more intimidating emotions, the rage bubbling just below the terror, and project that instead. "I have your money, but I have to see him first."

The guy's mouth twists up into a nasty snarl that does not go with his suave outfit at all. He has a neck tattoo, Frank notices, but he can't make out what it is in so little light. "Fine. Put this on."

He holds out a long strip of cloth, presumably meant to be used as a blindfold, which strikes Frank as somewhat overdue. He's already seen their location and memorized the address; the damage has been done. Still, he's in no position to argue, so he sets down the bag behind himself and quickly ties the cloth over his eyes — opaque, goddamnit. Luckily, at least, the duffel bag is still behind him when he reaches for it a second later; he grips it for dear life, because with his perception dulled, who knows what these guys might try to pull.

As soon as he's done, he's tugged into the building and lead through a series of curves and turns. At first, he tries to keep track — left, right, slight right, left — but soon gets the impression that all these extra turns are being taken just for the sake of disorienting him. All he can do in the end is let his feet follow obediently.

Then someone grunts out, "Take it off," and before Frank can get his own hands free, an unfamiliar person reaches forward and does it for him. In the seconds before the blindfold falls away, Frank tries to determine how many other people are in the room, only to realize that the only breathing he can hear is his own panicked wheezing. Maybe he isn't Tom Cruise after all.

But once his eyes adjust, the first thing he sees is Mikey Way, tied to a chair and gagged but still very much alive. The relief is so huge that Frank could almost pass out.

"There he is," a gruff voice says next to his ear, but Frank doesn't dare turn to look at its speaker. He settles on subtle glances around the room, taking in its high ceiling and total lack of furniture, save for Mikey's chair. The walls, six or so feet away from them on every side, are void of both paint and decoration, and the floor is littered with pipes and hardware like a skeleton collapsing inward. Apparently the 'nice suburban home' illusion gave up at the front door. "Give us the money, and you both walk out of here alive."

A sick feeling turns over in Frank's stomach. More than anything, he wants to flee, pump his legs as fast as he can until he's too far to catch, but he steels his nerves. This is all for Gerard. "No. One more thing."

An uneasy shuffle goes around the room. Frank still has no idea how outmatched he is. Finally, a new voice, still behind him, booms out, "What?"

"My parents." Frank has no idea where he's pulling this from; plan B had been to improvise, sure, but maybe some part of him has needed these answers all along. "Linda and Frank Iero. I want to know what you are. I want to know what it had to do with them."

"That's not our deal," the first voice snarls. In the name of desperate measures, Frank spins to face him, trying his best to make his gaze deadly despite having to tilt his chin up just to see the guy's face. Another neck tattoo, Frank notices.

"I don't care what our deal was." Frank's shaking, but at this point, it's impossible to tell what is fury and what is fear. "My parents are  _ dead, _ and I deserve to know why."

"Because they owed us  _ that." _ The huge guy tilts his chin towards the bag bulging in Frank's arms. Any moment, he half-expects them to overpower him and take it no matter what he has to say. Now that he's bitten the bullet and looked around, he sees that there's four of them, all nasty-looking and way above Frank's weight class. But maybe they don't want things to get messy if they can avoid it. "It's been over two decades. Longer than you have been alive, Frank Iero. We waited, but they chose to test our patience. It's time we come to collect."

"Why?" Frank cries out before he can get ahold of himself. "How could they possibly have racked up that much debt?"

"We offer services," is his only means of explanation. "Those services do not come cheap. If your parents chose to participate in business with us, it was entirely their decision. Now, the bag."

Fuck. Frank knows that Gerard isn't a mind reader, because he's said so a thousand times, but Frank can't help silently pleading for him to hurry up, wherever he may be. There are so many unknowns that Frank just can’t afford to linger on: the possibility that Gerard has already been caught, or that their hunch was incorrect and this is now a suicide mission. A million ways this could possibly go wrong, but only one way to get it right.

Apparently, these men do not take kindly to contemplative silences. "The  _ bag," _ the tallest one demands again. "Open it. Now."

Frank takes half a step back before bumping into the solid chest of someone else. Four-on-one, and he's surrounded. He's yet to see a weapon, but they would hardly need one — just a few punches angled the right way, and Frank would be out like a light. "No," he tries again, voice finally giving up and cracking. "I want to know more. Please."

The duffel bag is ripped from his arms and thrown to the ground gracelessly. A strangled noise tears its way out of Frank's throat before he can stop it, and a few feet away, he hears Mikey try to yell something through the gag. The zipper is pulled back by huge hands, hands that could so easily squeeze the life out of someone without even breaking a sweat. And there beneath it lies hundreds of sheets of blank copy paper.

Bile rises in Frank's throat. He is definitely not cut out for this line of work.

Four pairs of wrathful eyes look to him at once, and all Frank can think about is how fucking lame of a last word  _ please _ is. His heart is pumping so fast that if these guys don't kill him in the next thirty seconds, it's very possible his own body will — then the tallest one reaches for him, lightning-fast, and wraps a hand around Frank's throat like a boa constrictor. Like death.

Behind them, Mikey is still screaming something unintelligible, and Frank feels his feet lift off of the ground as he's raised into the air. It's unfair, he thinks, absolutely fucking unfair, that there is so much oxygen in the room and he's not allowed to have any of it. The edges of his vision vignette in black, and his head spins as his toes skate the ground. His terrified eyes lock with the murderous gaze of the same person who inadvertently helped kill his parents — and now him. Fucking irony.

Abruptly, something in the man's eyes changes — the fury switches to utter shock for just a split-second, and then they roll back into his head. The guy drops like a huge, deadly rock and his vise on Frank's neck releases. Frank collapses into a heap on the floor, heaving in breaths that won't come and trying to find feeling in his limbs again. Mikey makes another strangled noise and Frank looks up just in time to see a metal pipe crashing down on the next guy's skull, seemingly floating in mid-air. Relief floods through Frank so fast that he gets dizzy all over again, and he tries to call out with oxygen he still doesn't have.

"What the—" The third guy collapses artlessly with an absolutely bewildered look on his face. If Frank had the ability to do anything but suck in ragged breaths, he'd probably be laughing. The pipe floats over to Mikey's final captor, and Frank tastes something sweet, because he can't believe this  _ worked. _

Then the man reaches into his waistband and pulls out a pistol, aiming it directly at Mikey's skull.

Still suspended in the air, the metal pipe freezes. Mikey's yelling falls silent, and his eyes go wide, staring back at the barrel of the gun like he can't believe it's real. Frank can hardly process it either.

"Try anything," the man challenges, his harsh voice taking up all of the space in the room. He's dressed just like the rest of his colleagues in a blazer and slacks, but he looks more feral than them with an uneven beard and an unyielding glint in his eyes. Like the kind of man who could pull the trigger.

"Try anything," he repeats. "And I'll shoot him before your Invisible Man can do shit about it."

Frank's stuttering breaths are too loud as the threat rings off of the walls. He tries to swallow them down and think straight, but he can't, because that's a  _ gun _ and it's pointed right at Mikey's  _ brain. _

But — he got them into this. It's his job to get them out.

Slowly, when the man's eyes flick over to Mikey again, Frank inches his hand backward towards the unconscious form of the man who had strangled him. Surely he's armed, and if Frank can just find where he's packing, then he can—

With a slam, what can only be the front door crashes open. The man's attention falters for a split-second, but it's enough; just as Frank's hand closes around the barrel of another pistol, the metal pipe comes crashing down onto the guy's head and he crumples. The gun skids out of his grasp as he hits the ground but still fires, and Frank jumps as the bullet hits the wall next to him. Shit. Three seconds ago, that could have been a person.

"What the fuck?" comes Brian's panicked voice. "Was that a fucking _ gunshot?" _

Mikey makes another noise that still doesn't constitute as English. Frank nods reluctantly, still sprawled on the ground.

"You crazy motherfuckers." Brian wields a finger at Frank and Mikey accusingly, as if that's supposed to be scary after what they'd just been through. He rushes forward and starts to work on Mikey's bonds. "Where's Gerard?" he asks, just as Ray points to the mysterious floating pipe and asks, "Uh?"

Mikey spits out his gag as soon as Brian gets the knot undone — kind of weak, honestly, but maybe criminals don't do Boy Scouts — and says, "Right there, obviously."

In response, the pipe lowers into a less threatening position. Frank clears his throat a few times before managing, "Gee? Can you talk?"

Distantly, like it's coming through a window from the street outside, he hears, "I don't know, can I?"

Eloquently, Ray says, "What the fuck."

"You knew this was going to happen." Brian waves him off, even though he looks a little bit spooked too.

Mikey makes an impatient noise. Frank hadn't gotten the impression that the dude is particularly talkative, but four days in a gag would understandably drive anyone insane. "Uh, would anyone care to introduce me?"

"This is Ray Toro," Frank croaks, gesturing. "And Brian Schechter. They've been housing and feeding us."

Mikey nods. He seems a little shaken, but he's hiding it well. "Cool."

Now that Frank has mastered the breathing thing again, he wants to keep utilizing it. "So, Gee? Plan on returning to the realm of the living anytime soon?"

"I'm technically in it. You know that." Gerard's whispering voice moves closer, but something about it is off, like the sound is being pushed through barriers that Frank can't even imagine. Frank feels a warm touch on the side of his face, but it's gone just as soon. Behind him, he sees the knots on Mikey's ankles start untangling, even though Brian is still working on his wrists. Mikey smiles and he says something that Frank can't hear.

"Woah," Ray breathes.

Frank pretty much agrees, but — "Gerard, seriously. Come on."

The ropes come loose, and then Gerard's voice is right next to his ear. "I'm trying, Frankie. It's just—"

Frank feels the blood run out of his face. "What?"

"I think I went too far." He sounds louder, further away, and Frank realizes he's speaking to the whole room now. "I can't — the spiritual plane keeps pulling me in. I don't know how to let go."

“What do you mean, you don’t know how to let go?”

“I mean that I’m  _ stuck. _ I can barely grasp it, the physical world. It’s too far away.”

“It’s right here.”

“Not for me, it’s not.”

“But you always come back,” Frank presses, almost hysterical. “You  _ said _ that. Just like with your hand and your arm. You said that you always come back. It just needs time, right? You just need time?”

“Frank.” Gerard’s sigh ripples across the room. “It feels different than before. I don’t know if I can—”

_ “Don’t _ say that,” Frank gets out from between his teeth. “Don’t.”

"Where's Elena?" Mikey tries. "She's here, isn't she? Can't she fix this?"

"How can she help me back to the living when she's dead?" Gerard's usual foolproof logic is not what any of them need to hear right now. "I'm still here. Just because you can't see me doesn't mean I'm not here."

"Yeah, but—" Mikey meets Frank’s gaze, and he sees his hurt mirrored right back at him. “You mean you’re seriously stuck?”

The silent pause is deafening. “I don’t know.” 

Mikey’s expression folds into something even more miserable than it’d been when Frank had found him tied to the chair. “Fuck, Gee. I wish you hadn’t done this for me.”

“I did it for all of us,” says Gerard, and guilt twists like a knife in Frank’s chest. “I’m not  _ gone, _ guys.”

As Frank stares at the empty space of Gerard, though, he can’t quite bring himself to believe that. There should have been another way; he should have kept the whole idea to himself. 

It should have been him.

Brian steps forward. “Okay, whatever theories everyone has, we can test them somewhere else. We seriously need to go.”

Frank’s head snaps over to him and Ray. “What are you talking about?”

"Um." Ray scratches the back of his neck. "Someone called in an anonymous tip for criminal activity in this residence about five minutes ago, so unless you want to be here when the cops show up and try to explain all of—" he makes an expansive gesture to the bodies on the floor,  _ "—this, _ we should probably get going."

Frank fixes him with a hard look.  _ "Someone _ was supposed to stay in the car."

"Your time was up!" Ray points accusingly. 

"It was not!"

"If we hadn't walked in, you would have gotten fucking shot!"

"Hey!" Brian cuts in before Frank can fire back. "You're both pretty. Now go get in the fucking car." Then, in a gentler tone, "Gerard, are you good to, uh—?" Brian jumps about a foot in the air, so Frank gets the impression that he just got the first-hand experience of being poked by someone who is, by all logic, not there. "Okay, yeah, sorry," Brian squeaks.

Frank takes one last look at the four crumpled men on the ground before making a quick decision as everyone else files out the door. He shoves a hand into one of the guys' pockets. Empty. He tries the other, and comes up this time with a business card just like the one they'd found in place of Mikey four days ago — except, when Frank flips this one over, he finds a name, not a threat: ENIGMA. He also skates his fingers over the man's neck, just to confirm that the pulse is still there.

"What are you doing?" Frank startles as he hears Gerard's voice, having assumed he'd walked out with the others.

"Jesus, man, you have to warn me if you're going to hover over my shoulder."

Gerard lets out an annoyed sort of huff. "I don't hover, I still walk like I used to. I'm not a ghost, Frankie."

"Figure of speech."

"Oh."

Gerard asks him again on their jog back to the car, but Frank pretends like he didn't hear him. It's strange to have an open seat in the middle row next to him, despite the very obvious body heat pressed up against his leg. Mikey sits on the other side of Gerard and leans his head on what must be his shoulder, exchanging words too lowly for Frank to hear, and it's so surreal that he has to look away. Brian drives. He takes all the back roads he can find, just in case.

Frank must nod off, because suddenly Ray is shaking him awake and they're outside of his apartment complex. An unwelcome flash of deja vu overtakes him of the day he'd left for Lily Dale, hungover and secretly desperate for change. It could have been a lifetime ago, for all the new weight on his shoulders. "If you think it's safe here," Ray explains.

The thought of spending another night in Ray's guest bedroom without being able to wake up in the morning and see Gerard next to him makes him feel like he's been stabbed in the gut, so Frank climbs out of the car, all but numb. Suddenly, he's so, so exhausted.

"Gee is staying with me," Mikey offers as Frank leans back in to say his goodbyes. There's a yellowing bruise high on his cheekbone that Frank hadn't noticed earlier. He seems remorseful, so Frank tries to keep his emotions in check, because the dude did just get out of a hostage situation. He's definitely got enough on his plate.

"See you guys at work tomorrow?" he calls to Brian and Ray in the front seats.

"You don't have to come in," Brian says automatically. "We've already got you covered."

"I'll be there," Frank says, if only because he needs the reason to get up in the morning. Ray waves.

Just as he's about to turn and go, a warm hand he can't see grabs his wrist. "Hey," Gerard's voice murmurs, almost like the wind. "Frankie, we're going to figure this out. There's got to be some way. Maybe in Lily Dale we can find—"

"I'm not going back to Lily Dale," Frank says stiffly. He feels more than hears Gerard's shocked inhale that follows.

"Do you have Mikey's number?" He sounds desperate.

"I'm sure he can get mine from one of the guys." Frank takes a step back, and the grip on his wrist releases. Frank wants to pound on the ground and scream, it's so fucking unfair. "Goodnight, Gee."

He closes the door before he has to hear an answer.

*

That night, Frank watches the shittiest reality television he can find and drinks everything in his liquor cabinet. It's not a lot, because he's always preferred bars, but it's enough to drown out the noise in his head and allow him to replace it with whatever whoever is bitching about on whichever trashy show. He may as well regress; he's no better off than he had been at the start of all this. No parents, no boyfriend, no grand-fucking-epiphany about where he's supposed to go from here.

The same thought floats through his mind as the early hours of dawn creep up and his haze fades into more of a buzz. It dances through his consciousness like ghostly fingers, something he can touch but never truly hold.

After having his beliefs shredded up and thrown in his face again and again, there is only one thing Frank knows to be true. You can't solve a paradox.

*

_ Three Weeks Later _

“Frank, hey.”

Frank rolls over in bed so that the sunlight streaming through the blinds hits his back instead of his face and clutches the phone to his ear. He tries to place the voice, because his phone had played the generic this-could-be-anyone ringtone and he hadn’t recognized the number, but his tired brain draws a blank. “Who’s this?”

“Mikey.” Frank frowns. When he’d indirectly told Mikey to get his number from one of the guys, he hadn’t actually expected him to go through with it — and after three weeks of no contact, he’d assumed he was in the clear. Apparently not. “I’ve got news.” He pauses for a beat. “Are you alone right now?”

Motherfucker. He should know damn well that Frank is alone. “Yes.”

“Okay, I need you to not freak out.”

“Why would I freak out?”

The line goes staticky as Mikey lets out a deep breath. “He’s back, Frank. He came back.”

Frank’s heart leaps into his throat. “What?”

“Gerard’s back,” Mikey repeats. “He’s here. He reappeared less than an hour ago.”

After squeezing his eyes shut hard and blinking them back open, Frank comes to the conclusion that, “Fuck you. I’m dreaming.” It wouldn’t be the first time; this version is new, and so incredibly life-like that his subconscious  _ must _ be trying to torture him, but it’s still happened nearly every night since he got back. Gerard tangled up with him, or smiling at him over a cup of coffee, or closing his eyes for a reading, until a giant grey hand swoops down and snatches him away. Every time, Frank wakes up in a cold sweat and reaches for someone who isn’t there.

This time, though, the cell phone crackles, and Gerard’s weak voice says, “You’re not dreaming, Frankie.”

The entirety of Frank’s arms erupt into goosebumps and the pit of his stomach falls. He sees no grey hand. “Gee,” he whispers.

“You want to come over?” Mikey asks.

“Yes,” Frank all but breathes. “Oh my god, yes.”

*

Frank waits for a long minute in his car after shifting into park. He’s never been in Mikey’s apartment, but it’s not the unfamiliarity of the place that has Frank’s stomach roiling. It’s who’s on the other side.

It’s no mystery to Frank that he and Gerard hadn’t left things on the best note, and he’s even more aware that it has everything to do with him. He’d been the one to leave without a proper goodbye, to ignore calls from all his friends and retreat into himself. 

The time in his head had given him the opportunity to think. There had been a lot of internal back-and-forth about how far he’d be willing to push to make something like this work, and at first the obstacles had been a mountain range. Too high to climb and too wide to go around. But right now, he feels something shifting. Piecing together.

He can’t avoid hurt by running in the other direction. He’d tried, staring down the barrel of an empty bottle first for his parents and then something more. Separation hadn’t brought numbness, safety, or invincibility. It had brought an acute pain, twice as sharp as before.

Unmistakably, he realizes that no matter what, he still wants Gerard. Even when he’d been halfway in the spiritual plane. Even if he’s not here to stay.

Frank just hopes it isn’t too late to prove that.

Slowly, he pushes his car door open, walks over, and waits for Mikey to buzz him up.

“Sorry about the mess.” Mikey grimaces as Frank carefully skirts around a stack of books and a cardboard box full of candles. “We went back to Lily Dale and cleared out Gee’s old place.”

A guilty voice in Frank’s head tells him he probably should have offered to help with that. “You told Brian and Ray about him, right?”

“Yeah.” Frank dares to say that there is a smile tugging at Mikey’s mouth. “They’ll be here in an hour or so.”

“That’s good.” Frank rocks back and forth on his feet from the combination of nerves and ecstasy. 

He must not be very discreet, because Mikey catches his eye in a sideways look. “I should warn you, Gee’s not in the best condition right now.”

With complete honesty, Frank says, “I don’t care.”

They round the corner to the living room, and Frank’s gaze is immediately drawn to the lump of blanket curled into a ball on the couch. Black hair and a pale forehead barely protrude from the top. Frank takes an unsteady breath and swallows down the emotion prickling in his throat.

“He’s been slipping in and out of consciousness since he got here,” Mikey explains in a whisper. “I don’t know how long he’ll be, but you’re welcome to wait until he wakes up.”

“Thank you,” Frank says softly, trying to somehow convey how much this means to him in two words. After squeezing his shoulder lightly, Mikey gives him one final look and retreats to the kitchen. Though there’s an armchair nearby, Frank settles with his back against the wall and his knees touching the side of the couch, watching as Gerard shifts just barely under the blanket.

Frank doesn’t count the time, but it has to be at least ten minutes before Gerard comes to. The first thing he does is make a choked noise and try to sit up. Frank is there just as fast with a hand on the small of his back and a soothing voice. “Hey, it’s alright. You’re back.”

“Freezing,” Gerard says groggily, leaning into Frank’s touch. “How long was I out?”

“You’ll have to ask Mikey that.” Frank lets his other hand stray across the junction of Gerard’s neck and shoulder where his t-shirt is pulled down slightly. The skin there is ice cold, and Frank realizes belatedly that Gerard is shivering. “You need another blanket?”

Gerard shakes his head. “I’ll be fine in a minute. I’m just — readjusting. From having no blood flow. You get it.”

Frank hides a smile in the blanket over Gerard’s arm. “Not really.”

They just look at each other for a moment. Frank takes it as an opportunity to drink in all the features he’d missed so desperately: the disheveled black hair tucked behind an ear, pallid skin stretched over cheekbones, the exhausted rings underneath Gerard’s eyes and the way his irises sparkle so bright anyway. “I can’t believe you’re here,” Frank says.

“I promised, didn’t I?” Gerard tilts his head until he can meet Frank’s hand and brush his frigid lips over the palm of it. “That night. I promised I’d come back to you.”

“I’m sorry,” Frank blurts out. “For leaving you. That was so fucked up, and you can be mad at me for it.”

Gerard blinks owlishly. “Do you regret it?”

That’s hardly even a question. “Every day.” 

“Then I’m not mad,” Gerard says. “But I think you should tell me why.”

“I—” Frank swallows. He hadn’t planned on confessing, but there’s no way around it. “I couldn’t stand the thought of losing another person that I love.”

Gerard’s lips hesitate over the contours of Frank’s hand. “Love, huh?”

Frank nods. He wants to look away, but he can’t.

Gerard says nothing for a moment, then hums. “Sometimes I’d lose myself over there. Go completely under. I don’t remember a lot of it, because everything works differently on that side. Time and space, all that. The only time I remember was when Elena came to me. It was different than when I summoned her as a medium, because she was really there, just like before she died. I could reach out and touch her.”

“What’d she tell you?” Frank asks. He’s not entirely sure where Gerard is going with this; maybe the guy’s brain is just frazzled after everything he’s been through. Frank waits, though. The least he can do is hear him out.

A mist clouds over Gerard’s eyes. “A lot of things. About me and Mikey and how proud she is of us. But mostly — that it wasn’t my time yet. That I had too much to come back to.”

Frank’s heart skips a beat as he tries and fails to think up an adequate response. “It was so scary,” Gerard continues in a small voice. “To be out there floating between our world and the next. The spiritual plane tugged on me so hard, it was like gravity. Sometimes, when I’d feel myself crossing over, I’d have to think of something to hold me here. Like a tether.” His pale hand emerges from the wad of blanket and interlocks with Frank’s. “And it was always you.”

“I love you,” Frank says, for no reason other than that he knows it to be true.

“So much,” Gerard answers, as natural as breathing. He squeezes Frank’s hand gently, and Frank is so goddamn happy he could cry. If they don’t move onto a lighter topic soon, he certainly might.

He glances around and his gaze lands on another box of candles. “So all of your stuff is here.”

“Moved out.” Gerard sounds only a little wistful. “They didn’t have much use for an invisible medium at Lily Dale, so poor Mikey offered to put me up.”

Frank frowns, feeling acute guilt. “Will they take you back now? Do you still have your license?”

“Maybe, and yes.” Gerard’s mouth pulls to the side. “But I’m not going back there.”

“What?” Frank blinks; he must have heard that wrong. “What the hell else are you going to do?”

“I’ll figure it out.” To his credit, Gerard does pull off the nonchalance. Frank has no doubt in his mind that many hidden talents lurk underneath Gerard’s surface, but he hadn’t expected for him to just give it all up. “Besides, it’s not like I had the perfect life there. No one respected me, and they were never going to. The world is much bigger than that town.” He plays with Frank’s fingers a little. “And Elena was right. I have too much to let go of here.”

Frank can’t help himself. He uses his free hand to cradle the side of Gerard’s face and leans in, connecting their lips. Gerard is still cold, but he kisses back so sweetly, and Frank feels it like tiny shocks all the way down to his toes. 

Frank is the one to break it, pulling away and pressing their cheeks together, burning hot on ice. There will be more of that when Gerard is feeling better, and Frank is okay waiting for it. He feels no timebomb ticking anymore, counting down the days until they lose someone or each other. 

“I’m tired,” Gerard says, as if he can read Frank’s thoughts. His eyes are already slipping shut, head sinking back down onto the sofa cushion. Frank begins to rise to his feet, but then Gerard grabs his hand. “Stay?”

With a smile, Frank nods. He’ll stay as long as Gerard will let him.

*

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

Frank looks down at his parents’ tiny grave markers. “Yes, Gee. My answer hasn’t changed since the last twenty times you asked.”

“Sorry.” Gerard’s hand starts to slip out of Frank’s, but Frank crooks the tip of his forefinger to catch it. He joins their other palms and turns them over, lifting them into the space between them.

“I’m ready when you are.”

“Okay. Yeah.” Gerard blows air out of his mouth, making the hair on his forehead flutter slightly. He won’t meet Frank’s eyes for more than a glance at a time. “Just give me a second. It’s been awhile since I’ve done this. Formally, I mean.”

Instead of answering, Frank just squeezes his hands. A tiny almost-smile twitches at Gerard’s mouth, and then his eyes slip shut.

“They’re not here.”

Frank inhales sharply. “Not here?”

The grin cracks in full force across Gerard’s face. “I’m kidding. They just wanted to fuck with you.”

Frank looks towards the sky as if it could help him deal with his exasperating boyfriend. It’s a clear day, though, so he’s not going to get any pity clouds. “They did or  _ you _ did?”

“Shh,” Gerard says instead of answering. “They’re telling me something.”

With a huff, Frank says, “You’re lucky I love you.”

Gerard cracks one eye open just enough to show that it’s sparkling. “I know.”

A second later, his smile drops, expression going slack as his eye shuts once more. “They say they know why you’re here.”

“They heard the news?”

“One way or another.” Gerard bites his lip. In a quieter voice, he says, “They’re worried that you hate them.”

It takes Frank an extra moment to come up with a response to that. He settles on, “I could never,” and hopes to god that whatever he’s about to find out won’t change that.

“They know that Enigma was shut down and investigated by the government,” Gerard says.

“And thrown in fucking jail,” adds Frank, restraining a snarl.

Gerard rubs his thumb in a circle over the inside of Frank’s wrist, probably an attempt to pacify him. “But your parents don’t think you really found out what Enigma did.”

“They were killers,” Frank bites out.  _ “Are _ killers. They murdered both of you, and almost Mikey and I.”

Behind his lids, Gerard’s eyes roll like something out of a horror movie. He staggers forward before catching himself on Frank’s forearm. “Woah, sorry. That was a lot of information at once. Slow down a little, guys.”

“Hey.” Frank waits until Gerard looks at him. “We can stop this if it’s too much.”

“No, I’ve got it.” It’s almost convincing. 

By this point, though, Frank knows Gerard well enough to tell when he’s not going to back down. He turns his head to address the gravestones. “Go easy on him.”

Gerard clears his throat and coughs. “Enigma was a protection agency. They — your parents hired them because they had bigger guns after them. It was stupid, but they were young, and they needed a permanent solution.”

After so much inexplicable shit, Frank shouldn’t have it in him to be surprised. His eyebrows shoot up anyway. “Bigger guns?”

“Mafia-sized guns,” Gerard clarifies.

“Jesus Christ,” mutters Frank, shaking his head. “You two just couldn’t keep a low profile, could you?”

“They tried to keep one for you.”

Frank gives the stones his best side-eye. “And that worked out so well.”

Gerard makes an appalled face. “Mrs. Iero, I am  _ not _ going to call him that.”

“Call me what?”

“Nothing,” Gerard says too quickly. “Their point is, Enigma was not their enemy at first.”

“Until they started demanding their paycheck.” Frank runs a hand over his face. “Then they kind of became a pain in the ass.”

Silent for a minute, Gerard listens to voices only he can hear. “Well, yes.”

“So they had to end their lives to protect themselves from the people who were supposed to save them,” Frank sums up. “Huh.”

“They thought you’d be…more upset.” 

“Oh, I am.” Frank shoots his parents a pointed look, not unlike one they would have given him years ago. Weird. “Because that’s pretty fucked up. But I think I’ve done my share of grieving for now.”

“They say that they love you.”

Frank allows his thoughts to swim for a moment. There’s still a lot the three of them need to bridge, blank spaces and question marks in the story, answers he may never fully understand. But their deaths can’t be the end of his life.

“Tell them I forgive them,” he decides in the end.

When Gerard opens his eyes, there is no glassiness to them, and Frank knows that the two of them are looking at the same world again. “I’m proud of you,” he says. Frank meets him halfway to the kiss.

So maybe a paradox can’t be solved. Still, Frank thinks as Gerard brings one hand up to his face. As long as they can keep living through it, keep pushing for the light — he thinks things will be okay.

**Author's Note:**

> now with beautiful [art](https://www.instagram.com/p/Bq-XbJ3hF-W/?utm_source=ig_web_button_share_sheet) by virtuevalentine!


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